


Keeper of the Family

by Elphen



Series: Keeper of the Harem [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Affection, Alpha Sherlock Holmes, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe, BAMF John, BAMF Sherlock, Caring John, Caring Sherlock Holmes, Coming out of a coma, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, France (Country), Hormones, Insecurity, M/M, Miscommunication, Mpreg, Mycroft Being Mycroft, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, Omega John Watson, Omega Verse, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pheromones, Possessive Behavior, Protective John, Protective Sherlock Holmes, Protectiveness, Ruby's recovery, Scent Bond, Scenting, Scents & Smells, Sebastian Moran Being an Asshole, Sherlock Holmes and John Watson Being Idiots, Trust, consequences of coma and causes, identity rebuilding, monetary difficulties, readjusting to society, taking care of each other, the search for john's daughter, ultrasound, working on communication, working on the relationship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-01
Updated: 2019-10-19
Packaged: 2019-10-20 15:20:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 48,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17624858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elphen/pseuds/Elphen
Summary: Settling into a normal life, or what would pass for normal with a pregnant ex-army doctor and former harem keeper Omega and a consulting detective genius Alpha, ought to be relatively easy for the couple, given what has gone before. But it won't be that simple or quiet a time.Not only has Sherlock promised John to find the child that was taken from him, they have to deal with the unravelling the harem and the threat of Moriarty still looming not to mention learning to live together as a couple.John still feels a responsibility to his charges, especially Ruby, and also needs to reintegrate into life and society, which isn't made easier by his pregnancy.All in all, a semblance of quiet is still a long way off.





	1. Settling in, geting started and working as a couple

**Author's Note:**

> Did anyone really expect this? How many of you thought that this would be the next sequel I'd embark on? Hopefully it's not a disappointment that this is what I've picked to write a sequel to right now. I haven't forgotten the others I've promised to write. Any preferences, do let me know, here or on my tumblr. :)  
> Sorry for the wall of text that is the story summary. I do try, at least.  
> Why is it sometimes harder to post the start of a second entry in a story than the first? :S

Settling into 221B Baker Street took a little more than an admittedly excellent shag and a bit of talking.

John was used to sharing quarters both from his military career and his years in the harem, of course, and that helped, certainly. There was quite a big difference between the two, however, what with one having everyone in one space regardless of their secondary gender and being expected to keep things professional if not exactly chaste and the other being more emotionally close, if not more tight-knit, but where people had a chance to be physically separate, for a given value of separate. There was an equal difference between either of those and living in a relationship, bonded and mated, with someone, just the two of you.

Well, two for the time being.

The point was, John was used to rubbing along and make the best of things, no matter how much rubbing that entailed. Sherlock, on the other hand, wasn’t used to sharing his home with anyone, much less someone he was romantically involved with. It meant that there were things he didn’t think about or consider in the context of two people, of course, but the instances of that was actually surprisingly few.

The interesting point was when he tried to overcorrect and ended up being too considerate, too mindful of John, both in his status as pregnant and in mind of his secondary gender. It didn’t happen very often, but when it did, it was quite adorable and sweet, it really was. What it also was, however, was rather bloody annoying because he didn’t _need_ that consideration.

At least, that was what he thought initially. Then he remembered that they’d been in real danger of losing their baby, a reminder that was quite painful, and he couldn’t blame Sherlock for overdoing it.

That, however, did _not_ extend to over-consideration in relation to his secondary gender. They’d talked about it, for crying loud, he knew John wasn’t going to break.

He’d been about to mention it- in actual point of fact, he’d been about to shout it at the Alpha when it had happened again – when he’d seen Sherlock’s expression and it had hit him, hard.

Sherlock was overcompensating for his own sake as much as for John’s. To prove to himself, and his mate, that he was worthy of this, of this turn of events, and had, in what appeared to be true to personal form, he’d gone…a bit overboard, so to speak.

So, what he’d done instead was try and show his bond mate, through actions rather than words to not put anybody’s hackles up, that he was happy with how things were, and being equal didn’t mean John was going to find out he’d made a mistake.

It wasn’t logical. Then again, the man wasn’t quite as purely logical as he liked to think that he was.

The important point was that it was hardly the norm or frequent, and in any case, they’d work through it.

Apart from that, the first few days went well, just getting to know each other a little better – something that might be argued would’ve been an idea before they bonded but which neither really cared about. Well, that and taking care of quite a few more practical things that cropped up now that he was out of the harem, which frankly took longer than he would’ve expected.

It wasn’t helped by the fact that he had been shut away from the world for so long and the explanation for why that was the case…to say that it wouldn’t make things easier was an understatement.

Sherlock held true to his word; he called up a clinic, one that was getting good feedback online, apparently, to book an appointment for a sonogram almost that very same day he’d mentioned it. Unfortunately, the clinic claimed they were fully booked and couldn’t make an appointment with them until at least a week later.

That wasn’t good enough for the Alpha, it seemed, and another clinic was phoned. They’d met a bereavement and was sadly closed for the time being.

They tried a third one. Things went well there at first until the woman on the phone asked them to bring their bonding certificate. It turned out they’d only take them if they could show proof of a bonding ceremony because they ‘upheld traditional values’, as they preferred to term it, and children conceived in a non-bonding Heat by not already bonded people were considered bastards and should be terminated.

It was just as well that Sherlock was the one on the phone and not John. He felt distinctly certain he’d have done much worse than the brunet. After all, all Sherlock did was to icily tell the woman a few home truths. More or less.

In the end, after several mores tries and a lot of patience, they managed to find a clinic that was willing to take them and within the next day.

Sherlock smiled when he put the phone down.

“You feel pretty sure there’s more than one in there, don’t you?” John asked, slight teasing in his voice.

He, on the other hand, was almost dead certain that he was carrying only the one; he’d acted as impromptu midwife on the occasions when a resident of harem had fallen pregnant despite their best prevention efforts – even intentional abortions carried a great risk to unbonded Omegas, and to some degree Betas, too, and while they could be carried out without risk, they had to be done in the proper facilities, outside the harem, so that was out of the question – for whatever reason, and of course the ones that had arrived pregnant.

A sonogram would of course be better, but you could tell quite a bit by feeling the stomach and listening to it, and John would hazard the assertion that he’d become reasonable adept, within reason, building on what he’d learned in medical school and afterwards in his stint as a junior doctor.

The fact that he’d been carrying before, he didn’t put much confidence in, not on its own, at least. He wasn’t far enough along to feel clear kicking and weight or other factors that people used as clues often turned out to be as reliable as the ‘sure-fire ways’ people had of ensuring one gender or another, primary or secondary. Or the way you could supposedly tell the number and the gender by the changing scent notes.

“Absolutely certain,” the Alpha replied, the smile becoming a grin bordering on a smirk. “The only thing I’m remotely unsure of is whether it’s two or three in there. I would say two, but I’m open to the possibility of three.”

“Three? First off, that’s extremely unlikely when I wasn’t in Heat at the time – and I’m not arguing that point with you right now, I know what a real Heat feels like and I haven’t had one of those since…well. The point is, outside of Heat, not happening. Besides, when the hell did you become that intent on children? You were panicking when you first learned about the one!”

“I was not!”

John raised his eyebrows at that. “You were, Sherlock. You really were.”

“I… “Sherlock began then stopped to genuinely consider. “Perhaps I was…a little. As I recall, though, the circumstances weren’t exactly the best in which to learn that.”

John grimaced a little as he remembered. They’d been face to face with Moriarty at the time and Moriarty had been the one to out the fact that John was indeed pregnant. Given that –

John’s train of thought was broken when Sherlock stepped up and drew him close by wrapping his arms around the small of his back.

I meant to talk to you about that but then everything else happened. I was panicking, I admit that, but I wasn’t panicking for the reason you thought then and seem to still believe, at least a little. I was panicking, partly out of shock given the messenger and the unexpectedness of it, but mainly because I knew I’m not good father material. I’m not,” he repeated, looking at the blond’s expression. “But I’ll try my very damnedest to mitigate that with everything I have because I want this, and them, all of them, and you. Very badly so.”

He bent a little to press their foreheads together, looking intently at the other. “Just because I would rather have endured being without cases for a year than have a mate and offspring when we first met doesn’t translate into that being the case now, does it?”

John smiled, thankful. “Of course not, you plonker – and you won’t be a horrible father. You’ll likely screw up but so will I. That’s just being parents. Being human.”

He paused, pursing his lips in thought. “I think that if you are horrible, Mycroft will do something equally horrible in turn to you, if not worse. For a single Alpha, he’s rather…” He waved a hand, attempting to encompass what he failed to verbally articulate.

“Broody?” Sherlock suggested. “Perhaps. He was rather crestfallen when he presented an Alpha rather than an Omega, since it’s been the norm for the eldest Holmes child to be an Omega for at least three hundred years. Not that he hasn’t come to enjoy some benefits of being an Alpha.”

“He told me he had no intention of breeding himself,” John said as he recalled, “so he can’t have been that keen.”

He got a raised eyebrow from Sherlock at that and it clicked. “Ah. He wanted the experience of Omega-hood rather than purely the outcome, and the appeal is gone as an Alpha. That’s…sweet. Odd and a little mindboggling, to be honest, but definitely sweet.”

Sherlock made a face. “Trying incredibly gross.”

He got a thoroughly unamused look for that. “John, he’s my brother. I do not want to think about my brother in any such context.”

“Lucky for you he decided to abstain, then.”

That said, the blond could empathise. He certainly could do without knowing any details about Harry’s sexual exploits, much less the result of it, regardless of what secondary gender she’d presented as. It wasn’t gender issues, it was simply the fact that they were siblings and there were some things you’d rather not know. Or imagine.

Speaking of his sister, did she – no. She didn’t need to be informed of the recent developments in his life. This was his, something unequivocally good, and he didn’t need her to mess about in it and ruin it.

_That’s hardly fair, and you can’t say she’s the only Watson who’s managed to muck up her life, now can you?_

No, but there was no reason for him to let her drag him back down. Okay, that wasn’t fair, either. Even so, the thought of contacting her to tell her that he’d found an Alpha to bond with – he hadn’t informed her he’d gone to work in the harem, partly because it was none of her business but mostly because they actually hadn’t been in touch for a while even then – made the bile rise in his throat, and even more so that they were scent bonded and he was carrying that Alpha’s child. Children. Child.

So, no, there’d be no taking Sherlock to meet his sister-in-law. At any point.

“John?”

“Hm?”

“You were miles away.”

“Sorry.”

“If you don’t want me to meet her, that’s fine, but you must know I’d never think less of you for a defect of birth.”

John frowned. “How the hell…?” He’d never mentioned Harry to Sherlock, not one word, so why would he mention a her, when they’d just been talking about siblings?

The brunet shrugged. “Easy, really. Your scent says distress and annoyance, a combination that is most commonly found in that concentration when people are thinking of family. That and I read some of your records, of course.”

“You read – wait, why am I even bothering to be surprised?”

“No idea.”

“That’s still not on, Sherlock.”

“I needed to know more about you to find you.”

John wasn’t too convinced by that justification, but he decided to let it slide, at least for the moment.

“I…she’s not…”

Sherlock stole a kiss.

“It’s okay either way, John,” he said, earnestly. “It’s your decision, not mine. If I could’ve spared you meeting my brother – “

“You would’ve been entirely unsuccessful.”

The interrupting voice came from behind them. Sherlock didn’t turn around.

“Whoever told you it was okay to just come barging into whatever home you felt like trespassing in?” he snapped.

“Probably the same person who taught you, I imagine, brother mine,” Mycroft quipped, unperturbed. He stepped further into the living room, almost but not quite coming up beside them.

“Doctor Watson,” he acknowledged. “A pleasure to see you again. I hope you’ll forgive the intrusion. I did bring something.” He held up a bag that oozed, quite unusually, class rather than mere expenditure.

John saw Sherlock open his mouth, undoubtedly in order to make another jab, and nudged him, a little sharply. Sibling bickering was fine, but Mycroft had been instrumental in the rescue of the harem and would be vital to keep the freed people out of there, too. What was more, he had treated John well every time they’d met. More than well, really, and his brother, too. In the circumstances, jabs and barbs were uncalled for.

He got a glare for his efforts, but the consulting detective did keep his mouth shut.

“That’s very kind of you, thank you,” he said, taking the bag off the ginger Alpha. At the insistence of a waved hand, he opened the bag immediately, peering inside.

Inside was a…actually, there were quite a few things in there. He recognised a rattle, a plush toy, a lovey, what might be a hooded bath towel, judging by the look of the cloth, and cotton baby booties. They were all in soft material, the plushie and the lovey in that special fuzzy-soft fabric, and the colours were a gender-neutral white and yellow. In fact…was that a bee attached to both the lovey and the rattle? Seemed to be, though the plush toy was unquestionably that of an otter.

All of them oozed the same kind of quality and class the bag held. More than that, though…they were thoughtful. Things had been picked carefully, with an eye on both what would appeal visually, with the brightness of the yellow, and tactilely, to a child and what pushed no preference of gender bias onto the parents.

That and neither otter nor bee was exactly the most common and uninspired choices, though John would be hard-pressed to work out why those two animals in particular had been chosen.

“That’s…thank you, Mycroft,” he repeated as he looked back up, with more genuine feeling than before. “That’s incredibly thoughtful of you.” He smiled.

“I do hope you don’t think it intrusive,” the government official said, sounding equally genuine as a smile kissed his lips briefly.

Noticing that Sherlock was unusually, possibly worryingly, quiet, John turned his attention back to his bond mate, opening his mouth to be ready to reprimand him again, not unkindly, if he looked about to deliver a verbal jab, after all.

What he saw, he had to admit, surprised him a little.

Sherlock had looked into the bag along with John and now his eyes were trained on Mycroft. That was not what caught the blond’s attention and surprised him. That honour belonged to the widened eyes and the slight but unmistakable shine to the eyes.

The clincher, however, was the words that came out of his mouth next.

“You…remembered?” It came out very quiet.

The smile was less fleeting this time. “Of course, I did, brother mine. Why wouldn’t I? To be honest, I’m more surprised that you remembered. You have deleted so much of your childhood, after all, and that in particular instance, I would even say I understand.”

“Sorry, remembered what?”

They both turned to look at him. He didn’t flinch under the combined visual penetration.

“Sherlock was, as many other children are when they are born, given a plush toy. That toy was an otter, handpicked by our uncle. When he became old enough to register things, it became his absolutely favourite toy.”

“What happened to it?”

“I lost it,” Sherlock said, shortly. He didn’t offer up any more information than that.

Mycroft was a lot more forthcoming. “On a holiday when he was five. We spent the whole day searching for it, as I recall, with no luck. He was inconsolable for about a fortnight. Then he never spoke of it again.”

Sherlock didn’t say anything in retaliation. Instead, he reached into the bag and pulled out the plush, carefully, his long fingers running over its fur continuously as he held it, without comment.

John didn’t mention it, either, turning instead to the other Holmes, who was leaning slightly on the ever-present umbrella.

“Thank you again, Mycroft.”

“Not at all, Doctor Watson. It was my pleasure. Or should that be Watson-Holmes?”

His gaze lingered, perhaps slightly pointedly, on where the bond bite was still visible above the collar of John’s t-shirt, the same not exactly well-fitted one he’d arrived at 221B in.

He hadn’t been out shopping for clothes yet, too caught up with other things, and Sherlock being just part of it. Well, that was one reason as to why.

The other reason was that while he probably still had a bank account and likely also money, he hadn’t used it in the time he’d been in the harem and his credit card had consequently expired. Possibly his account had been closed due to inactivity, too, if the harem owners hadn’t put things into his account. Had they? Money had become something of a background thing in a place where you were sequestered from the world and everything, though really only the bare necessities, was provided for you in order to keep that sequestering complete.

Not anymore, however, and it had dawned on him just how many things he didn’t have, never mind what they’d need for the baby.

He could of course ask Sherlock for help. They were bonded now, after all, it would not be an unreasonable thing to ask for, clothes for him and essentials for the child. If it came to that, it was Sherlock’s flat and his food, if you could call what was in that fridge food, and he was happy enough to sponge off of that, so why not the other things?

Because this was only a temporary thing until John found a place to work, even if that somewhere had to be in a shop or a supermarket. Then he’d pay his share of food and rent, just like anybody else would.

That could go for the clothes, too, couldn’t it?

No, it couldn’t. That was…somehow more personal and being given clothes to wear brought memories of his time first being in the harem, when there was still novelty to him, and he’d not just served as the keeper. Not that those were dominating or anything, and he might be using them as a convenient excuse, but Sherlock providing for him all-around still rankled. Enough that he hadn’t brought it up with the Alpha, and the man hadn’t made a comment about it, either.

Then again, Sherlock had been happy to walk around in nothing himself and for John to do the same, draping him in his blue dressing gown when he’d seen the Omega shiver.

It didn’t seem likely that he’d continue to be okay with the temporary solution, though, given the quality and style of his own attire.

All that said, he stood tall under Mycroft’s scrutiny, his chin lifting slightly, proud to display the bond bite openly. Not that he was ever going to have it marked by the tattooed ring around the outside of it that was popular among certain Omegas, or the even more gaudy embedding of more or less precious stones below or above the teeth indentations, or that he’d specifically choose clothes that showed off the bite. He had no need or desire to flaunt the fact that he was indeed now bonded; he knew and so did his mate, and that was all that really mattered. The world could piss off.

That went for his brother-in-law, too, but surprisingly, even though there was that hint of pointedness to the look, and the last comment as well, the expression on the man’s face, though expressions on that face never seemed to be all that pronounced, was not disapproving. Instead, it was more commending and…perhaps calculating was too strong a word but it was certainly something along those lines, albeit not negatively charged as the word ‘calculating’ was.

He then remembered that the comment had in fact been a question but realised at the same time that he didn’t know how to answer it.

It wasn’t a question that had come up between them in the preceding few days, even as both had taken moments to lavish attention on the bond bite of the other. That had been at least in part fuelled by biology, but mostly it had had to do with displays of affection and strengthening, if not the physical bond then the emotional one. John hadn’t thought about that side of things at all.

Thinking about it now, he looked to Sherlock, asking without words.

The Alpha stepped up to the plate admirably. More than admirably, to be honest.

“Either Holmes-Watson or Watson-Holmes would be fine,” Sherlock said, tone lofty as he addressed his brother, drawing his mate closer, “or keeping to Watson. The point is that whichever he chooses, the decision will be John’s.”

“Surely, the decision will be made by the both of you, together,” Mycroft countered, with a glance back towards John. “Unless you expect only the doctor to change his surname, of course.”

“Of course not!” Sherlock snapped. “I would be more than happy with either, if John is amenable, but as it isn’t me who will have to adjust to normal life again, with more than enough on his plate, it can hardly be my decision when or even if there’ll be a change of names. Right now, there are more important things.”

A look passed between the two brothers then, one that lingered as though it was in fact a conversation and evidently communicated something very important that John wasn’t privy to. That rankled somewhat, to be left out like that, but he’d already sussed that if he was to ask what that was about, he’d be given a pat answer, at best, and so he let it be. For the time being, anyway.

Mycroft cleared his throat after a few more minutes.

“This has been delightful but I’m afraid I cannot stay. My schedule is rather packed.”

“Working through the stock of patisseries around Whitehall again? I’m surprised they don’t ban you, your gut must be putting off the other customers.”

The jab wasn’t all that harsh and all it did was earn a raised ginger eyebrow. The elder brother inclined his head in the direction of the doctor in farewell, then turned on his heel and walked back out of the flat, the tapping of the umbrella a counterpoint to the tread of his brogues.

Before he reached the front door to the flat, however, he stopped when Sherlock called out after him, turning his head a little to look at them.

“One set won’t cut it.”

“It will. We’re only having the one child. We are, Sherlock. Who’s the one carrying it around?”

“You can’t feel it move yet, and in any case, I’m right.”

Mycroft looked between them, the eyebrow rising again. He didn’t say anything, however, just inclined his head minutely again, then turned to leave.

Once he was properly gone, John tried to pull out of Sherlock’s grip, more to put the things they’d gotten away, possibly in that other bedroom the flat had, the one they’d already discussed whether could function as a child’s bedroom or not. They could have the cot for the baby in what had been Sherlock’s bedroom.

If Sherlock was right and he _was_ carrying more than one, though, or his eggs hadn’t dried up by this point and there were more pregnancies in store for him, for them, they were going to run out of space rather quickly. Hell, even if he was only pregnant with the one this time, if they found his little girl, then they would have a problem as soon as the little one grew too big to sleep with its parents.

Of course, there was always the option of a bunkbed but that was hardly going to be practical or safe for whoever was in the top bunk, not at such tender an age as they’d need it, and putting in two beds, even child-sized ones, that would be a squeeze, and he didn’t want that for their child. Children.

Lips pressed against his forehead, at the small knot that was the frown he hadn’t realised he wore, and arms drew him back into their hold.

“I need to put these away, love. Can’t do that while you’re playing octopus.”

“Not until you stop worrying about utterly unimportant things that will sort themselves out.”

“You don’t know what I was worrying about.”

The Alpha merely hummed in reply. John noticed he was still holding the otter plush, the fur of it squished between them.

“What did Mycroft really want, then? Because I don’t believe for a moment that giving an admittedly very sweet and thoughtful gift would be important enough for him to do. Not in person.”

“Perhaps he is trying to woo you himself.”

The laughter that statement caused was one that ripped itself out of John’s throat without his consent. The very idea was hilariously ludicrous.

He got an answering chuckle then a few moments of silence.

“Seriously, though. Why the visit?”

“To check up.”

“And he cannot do that from his access to CCTV or even by sending a lackey?”

_Big brother is watching, indeed. Just be grateful that it isn’t the novel, and that Mycroft is, ostensibly, on your side._

“Of course. But though he doesn’t want to admit it, he’s not always the only one with access to their feed.”

It only took a moment for it to click in the doctor’s mind. “Moriarty.”

“Possibly.”

 _Which_ , John thought, _probably means that it could be either Moriarty or the owners or possibly even both. Bloody, buggering hell._

“Isn’t that like a big red flag, then, him going in here? Advertising where you live?”

“Where _we_ live,” the Alpha corrected, a little pointedly though his voice was still warm, “and it’s nothing that cannot be easily sourced if you want to. There are not a ton of people named Sherlock Holmes in Greater London.”

_There aren’t a ton named Sherlock Holmes in the entire world, and even if there was, you would still be entirely unique, love._

“That’s a point, but still, it seems quite the risk to take.” For us more than for him.

“Mycroft was making a statement to anyone who might be watching. He will have stopped as he stepped out of his car, letting the cameras see him before he walked into the building, and done the same when he walked out, both letting his own people know where he is and sending a message.”

“But do people know who _you_ are? If Mycroft is known to the people in question, won’t that be calling unnecessary attention to both us and Mrs. Hudson, not to mention himself?”

John had been introduced to the owner of the building the day after he’d first arrived; Sherlock had more or less dragged him down the stairs to meet her shortly after they’d gotten dressed, explaining that she was renting to him with a considerable discount because he was a far quieter Alpha to rent to than most – and of course, he’d helped her with her Alpha husband, who was in jail.

She’d later explained to John that it was her hip, which made navigating stairs ever so difficult, and that Sherlock had actually made sure her husband _stayed_ in jail and that their bond could be safely broken without her losing any benefits.

When they’d arrived down at 221a, however, it had been Sherlock introducing John to Mrs. Hudson, explaining to her that he was his new bond mate that he’d met while on a case.

John understood perfectly fine why he didn’t disclose the whole story; it wasn’t exactly the type of tale you relayed over the afternoon tea, not with harems being now illegal in the country, and the treatment by the general public of their ‘members’, whether current or past, tending towards scorn, moral superiority and contempt. Bringing it up wouldn’t be doing either of them any favours.

In fact, he was grateful to Sherlock not to out him to his, their, landlady, giving him the opportunity to establish himself away from the identity of ‘keeper’. Not that he was ashamed of his past – he had a lot of feelings towards his past, especially the time in the harem, but he wasn’t going to be ashamed of it, not if he could help it – but he had enough on his plate without being judged for said past right out of the starting gate.

It would at least give him a chance.

He’d have to hand it to the Beta woman, though. While she congratulated them on both their bond and their upcoming child – “I’m old, dears, not blind or anosmic” – and then went on to chatter about how she’d wanted kids when she was young, there was something in her eyes when she looked at him a few times over the course of the visit that clued John in she wasn’t quite as not-in-the-know as she and they both pretended but that she’d been more than fine with it.

In fact, he got the distinct impression that her voyages on the sea of experience had gone rather further than twice around the lighthouse.

What had been a little unexpected to experience while they were there, though perhaps that was rather unfair of him, was the pride Sherlock had been practically radiating the entire visit. Not the kind typically associated with Alpha, domineering and possessive, showing the thing that was theirs off as one would an expensive car or a prized watch. The purer, almost child-like giddy pride of having something they consider the best thing in the world that they get to show to others and share with them.

The first kind of pride he would’ve understood, Sherlock’s Alpha tendencies coming to the fore, despite his best efforts, now that he was bonded to someone and had a child on the way. This second one that he was in fact exhibiting was surprising in its earnestness, its innocence and not least of all, its strength.

It had twisted something inside John but in a way that flooded him with almost incandescent warmth and just a hint of relief.

He’d moved closer to his Alpha where they’d sat putting his arm around his waist. Sherlock had turned his head, surprise written mostly in his eyes but nonetheless evident for that. Nor had the unspoken question of ‘what was that for?’.

John had just smiled and leaned lightly against the brunet’s side, feeling worryingly content for the moment, a knowing smile from the old woman only just visible of the rim of her teacup.

Sherlock’s next words brought John back to the here and now, jolting him from the pleasant memory back into the worry.

“Moriarty knows perfectly well, and even if the harem owners aren’t bright enough to work it out for themselves, he might tell them the location.”

“Out of spite? Or boredom?”

“Perhaps.”

“Sherlock, if Moriarty’s going to come after us, then I want to know,” John snapped, annoyed by the vagueness. “I don’t want to be left on the side-lines because you deem it too dangerous – for all you know the side-lines might be just as dangerous!”

_I’m no bloody damsel. He knows that I’m perfectly capable of handling difficult situations, baby or no, Moriarty or no. He’s seen it! I’ve handled Moriarty on my own before, too. So, why the hell is he suddenly trying to protect me and keep me away from something that we’ve both got a vested interest in stopping?_

“I’m _not_ side-lining you,” Sherlock returned, a deepening crease forming between his eyebrows. “I’d never want to. Why would I want to? What sense does that make?”

The look of sheer disbelieving bafflement on Sherlock’s face, along with the words themselves, folded John’s anger in on itself and made him feel somewhat stupid in the process, or at least unreasonable. The accusation had nothing to do with Sherlock and everything to do with John and his knee-jerk reaction based in prejudice and bad experiences.

“It doesn’t,” he said, looking away. He didn’t particularly want to see what expression the bafflement morphed into.

_You idiot. Why can’t you think before you react?_

“John?”

“I’m sorry.” He didn’t turn his head back.

Something pinched at his ear. Automatically, he reached up to grab at whatever it had been. His hand came into contact with Sherlock’s, which grabbed his and refused to let go.

“What the hell was that for?”

“If you’re determined to be an idiot – “

“I deserve to get my ear pinched?” Though, to be fair, it had brought him out of his thoughts, and he felt a smile tugging at his lips.

“Obviously.”

“…I’m going to be raising three children, aren’t I?”

Sherlock smiled. “I’m glad to see you’ve finally come around to my estimate of the children in your womb.”

“What happens when I turn out to be right, then?” John asked, the smile tugging much harder.

“Nothing because you won’t.”

“Right. Well, let’s see about that, shall we?”

He _knew_ he was only carrying the one. Gods, the thought of carrying twins, or more, plus his little daughter when they found her – he refused to think of other possible outcomes – that was…not that he didn’t want them, of course he did, but going from none to three while getting to know each other, apart from everything else, might be a little much for them.

* * *

It was a little later that same day. John sat on the sofa, flicking through one of the seemingly endless books littering the living room, one that he vaguely seemed to recall reading for med school, and Sherlock was seated in his leather chair, plucking at his violin while he claimed he was thinking.

“John?”

“Yes?”

“You do believe me that I wouldn’t leave you out of this, right?”

The words were spoken calmly enough, with almost a sort of confidence to them. Strip that surface confidence away, though, and the calmness became more something resembling uncertainty.

The Omega lowered the book and looked over at his bond mate.

“Yes, I do. It was…I don’t even know what that was, really, but it was unfair and I’m sorry.”

Sherlock scanned his face, then seemed to relax a little himself. “No apology needed.”

_As if. For crying out loud, we’re a right pair of Charlies._

“Why were you being vague, then?”

“I wasn’t. I was being accurate.”

“Because…oh. Of course.” He wasn’t stable at the best of times, even John had experienced that, and had just been lucky not to bear more of the brunt of it than he had.

_Well, he did say he liked you, didn’t he? Not that that’s a good thing, at the best of times._

“What do we do, then? _Can_ we do anything?”

“No.” The admission sounded wrenched from his throat. “Mycroft’s dealing with it for now. If he comes close, however…”

He left it at that, but then, he didn’t need to say anything further. What he meant and felt was reflected succinctly in his expression, not to mention his scent. Even if it hadn’t been that evident, though, John felt sure he’d have understood, as he shared the sentiment.

His hand found his middle, rubbing at what could so easily still be mistaken for nothing more than paunch, which had been to his benefit while he’d been in the harem. No matter the number of babies residing in there, he would allow nothing to hurt them, including vindictive harem owners and one Irish Alpha madman.

He wasn’t normally much for playing into expected traits of his gender, primary and especially not secondary, but at this time, he’d embrace the usually slightly condescending title of Omega Bear Mum with open arms and the greatest of pride.

* * *

He ought to have known, really.

The clinic they were at resembled Mycroft’s gift to a degree, though mostly in the sense that while the place also oozed class, it did it _through_ expenditure rather than in spite of it. It just…fitted, that this was the kind of place that Sherlock would’ve chosen for them to go.

No, wait. That wasn’t right. It’d fit if it’d been Mycroft who’d chosen the clinic for them – never mind that Sherlock hardly would’ve have accepted his brother being high-handed in a situation like that – but for Sherlock, that wouldn’t be something of interest to him.

Yes, he was a posh toff and his clothing was expensive as anything but apart from that…well, you only had to take a good look at how he’d decorated the Baker Street flat. What John’s mother would’ve called homely clutter.

It was something of a contradiction, but he could say with certainty that _that_ did indeed fit with Sherlock Holmes.

This, though…this just didn’t seem his scene. Too sparse, too bright, too…designed to soothe and, most importantly, impress.

But then, working on his own expertise, the staff were evidently professional and what was more, they had been treated very kindly, though not condescendingly sweet, ever since they’d walked in.

Right now, John was lying on an examination table, his shirt pulled up enough that the midwife they’d been assigned could spread the gel around his belly. It was cool rather cold as she poured it on and warmed up surprisingly quickly as she dragged the rod across the surface of his stomach.

In any case, his focus was elsewhere. Namely on the screen which showed a rather grainy image that was almost impossible to make sense of.

Nevertheless, it seemed the midwife had things perfectly under control and knew what she was seeing as she moved the rod up, down, sideway, and diagonally. The erroneous thought that next would be the L of a knight flittered across John’s mind.

“There,” she said. They were hiding but there they are.”

“By ‘they’ you mean you can’t tell the gender?”

“No, I mean there’re two.”


	2. The issue of providing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As they share in the joy of two babies rather than one, John is hit with a dose of reality as he considers the cost of ensuring they make it into the world - plus the cost of everything else he needs and they will need. Sherlock tries to help and reassure, in his own way, but John's stubborn when he wants to be. Meanwhile, Mycroft carries on his promised investigation into several things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry this has taken me a month to get out. I shall endeavour to be quicker with the next chapters.  
> Thank you to everyone for the kind feedback on the first chapter, whatever form it's taken. Sequels I'm always extra nervous about so the encouragement and interest touched me. Fingers crossed it's not just postponed yeah?

John didn’t even need to look behind him at his partner to know he was smiling to the point where calling it a smirk would be far more appropriate. It did after all mean that he’d been right in his prediction, and John had been wrong.

He didn’t ask whether she was sure. She had an air of calm confidence and ease about her and she handled everything with expertise that spoke of experience and yet a care that told him she wasn’t yet at detachment or apathy regarding her job.

Even if he hadn’t trusted in that, after a slight movement and change in angle of the rod, he could see it himself. Or rather, he could see _them_ , surprisingly clearly and distinctly, two small beans of grainy grey, essentially, with some strange nubs on them, lying close together.

What was most important, though, was that they had heartbeats, both of them, visible and indisputable.

He couldn’t help the lump invading the entirety of his throat, the moistness of his eyes nor the knot of airy warmth in his chest. Those were his babies. His babies in there, alive and growing despite the hardships they’d already faced.

Behind him, he could feel Sherlock move closer to the screen, his body pressing against the Omega in his eagerness to better scrutinise.

It probably would’ve been easier for him to just move around to the other side of the bed, but he didn’t, and John found himself grateful for that, as the lithe body behind him was a significant calming factor.

“Are they…?” Sherlock seemed somewhat hesitant, but he managed to press on. “Are they…on schedule?”

John heard the original end of the sentence. He swallowed but kept quiet.

The midwife turned to look directly at them, professionally unruffled but with a smile visible at the corners of her eyes.

“For their age, they’re doing rather well, yes,” she said. “When you take into consideration the issues you’ve mentioned,” which were redacted and modified for general consumption, “they are in fact doing tremendously well. You’re sure you weren’t aware there are two?”

Sherlock said no at the same time John said yes, both emphatically so.

“You knew, John, you were just being unreasonably stubborn in refusing to admit it.”

_Oh, I was, was I? Look, kettle, you’re bleeding black._

“If you weren’t aware,” the midwife said, turning her attention on the Omega alone, “then I can’t say I’m surprised, not at this stage of pregnancy. The heartbeats are hard to distinguish through the stomach and for twins, they will often, though not always, align when they are big enough to be felt. The growth of the stomach is, as you know, not necessarily a good indicator. Some single pregnancies could be mistaken for twins and vice versa. It’s only really larger sets of multiples that are easily distinguished.”

“But Sherlock’s been adamant there were more than one. Why would he know if I didn’t?”

“Wishful thinking?” she suggested gently after a pause to think.

To which Sherlock evidently bridled. “Pure fact,” he returned, sharply.

“Based on what?” she asked, with what sounded like genuine curiosity rather than accusation.

Regardless, there was a definite imperious tint to his voice when he answered, “Based on scent.”

“Sherlock, you couldn’t smell I was pregnant to begin with, come off it.” _If you could, before Moriarty brought attention to it, you wouldn’t have reacted as you did. At least, I sincerely hope you wouldn’t._

He didn’t say more, so as not to give away any details she didn’t need to know.

“I know your scent much better now,” Sherlock replied, equally vaguely.

“Regardless of how intimately familiar you are with your partner’s scent, it’s not a given you can pick up on such minute differences and indicators,” the midwife said, “but it might be that Mr. Holmes is possessed of better olfactory capabilities than most. There’s been a few studies done on that topic, at both Cambridge and Paris Sciences et Lettres, I believe, but I’m not up on their findings, so I’ll spare you my speculations.”

When John glanced over at Sherlock at that, it looked as though she’d gone up a little in his estimation and his interest was piqued by unknown but potentially interesting studies from creditable sources. What was more, he was preening slightly under the inadvertent praise.

The doctor elbowed him, gently.

In response, rather than being offended, Sherlock reached over, grabbed John’s hand and interlaced their fingers. The Omega smiled and looked back at the screen, not even close to tired yet of looking at the proof that he was pregnant. There was also quite a lot of relief in the knowledge that the scent bond deterioration hadn’t caused damage to the foetuses.

At least, there wasn’t any visible damage.

He managed not to take a sharp intake of breath as that thought crossed his mind. For a moment, he debated not letting on at all but realised almost immediately how phenomenally stupid that would be. They were where the expertise was, and she’d be monitoring the progress of the baby, babies, until a while after they were born. She’d find out if there was something wrong sooner or later.

Better to ask her now and be prepared.

_Always easier to preach than to practice, isn’t it?_

“If there is any damage to them caused by the deterioration that isn’t immediately visible, it can be detected before…in time?” he asked, matter-of-factly, only slipping a little at the end.

He heard a small intake of breath behind him and felt his hand being squeezed, and not in a reassuring or loving way. It seemed quite unintentional.

“We will be monitoring you throughout, more frequently than we would with what is erroneously termed a ‘regular’ pregnancy. Normally, that would be because of your age and the fact that this is your first pregnancy by this Alpha. In addition, in this case, there are the circumstances of your bond, both the scent bond and more run-of-the-mill one, all of which are potential risk factors that we have to take into account.”

“But you can do it?” It was intended to be merely a question, but it came out with an edge of captain.

“We can do it, Doctor Watson,” she said, smiling with her eyes again. She looked at them both. “Otherwise, we wouldn’t have agreed to take you when you contacted the clinic. Your health comes first and after that, the health of the babies. We’ll schedule you for appointments every fortnight for the remainder of the pregnancy.”

That sounded reassuring but also expensive. This was a private clinic, after all, and rather upmarket, to boot. They’d be charging a pretty penny, if not a handsome pound, for both of those things, and with appointments scheduled once every fortnight, the charge would quickly mount up.

John didn’t have the kind of money for that. Hell, he’d be lucky if he still had access to what little money he did have.

But it was evident that they did need those appointments, if they were to make sure two babies growing in a body that’d been through the ringer and suffered bond deterioration made it to arrival, and despite the posh appearance, he found himself trusting the midwife almost completely, only the wariness, cultivated through sheer need, he always carried with him marring that, and even then, only a little.

The thought, the mere thought that lack of funds, something as basic, stupid and essential like that, could mean he was going to hurt his children, potentially damage them irreparably, if they even made it…it made bile rise in his throat, said throat’s constriction concentrating the bile into a lump of searing pain.

He felt the hand in his squeeze again, this time seemingly intentional. Trying to comfort, help?

Of course, he wasn’t alone, was he? The father was here, this time, able, and _willing_ , to help him, help _them_ get through all of this.

Sherlock might be out of his depth on this, but so was John, really. Certainly, that was true when it came to making a relationship like this work, long-term, and with taking care of babies and children for any length of time. No matter his expertise or lack thereof, there was no valid reason John could possibly think of why his Alpha wouldn’t want to help and be there, be it emotional, physically or financially.

This wasn’t like with the clothes; this would be for the benefit of them both, for their children. Therefore, it wasn’t unreasonable to expect Sherlock to provide.

But for all his fine clothes and for his posh-ness, being a consulting detective wasn’t the most highly paid, it seemed, at least not consistently so, nor was it exactly steady income. Though the Omega hadn’t asked, he really couldn’t imagine the Alpha having an enormous amount of money, either.

Then again, he _hadn’t_ asked, and he might as well be entirely wrong about that assumption.

_And in any case, you’re forgetting about Mycroft – and don’t go saying you don’t want his help. That’s a luxury that you cannot really afford at this point._

None of this he said out loud, and even though Sherlock had unquestionably realised something, the rest of the appointment went as predicted. They got a print of the ultrasound, found a date for the next appointment, and was out of the door.

All the way through that, they behaved calmly and, for John’s part, apparently unaffected. As soon as they were outside, though, Sherlock pulled his bond mate close and gave him a kiss, a long one, ignoring the fact that they were out in public.

“It’s going to be alright,” he said softly when they parted.

John didn’t ask what he meant by that. He knew what was meant, and Sherlock knew that he knew. Hell, if his scent hadn’t given him away, detectable to Sherlock if nobody else, the fact that the brunet had squeezed his hand was quite the clue.

“It’s not just the babies, though,” he said, equally quietly. “Well, it’s mainly that – and yeah, okay, you were right, there were two, not one – but it’s not exclusively their health, I mean. It’s also – “

“The money?” Sherlock interrupted. He got a frown for his troubles.

“You tensed up when she mentioned the number of appointments,” he began to explain, “you were shifting slightly while we sat in the waiting room, uncomfortable at the understated to enhance the money. That, together with the fact that you’ve refrained from eating very much so as not to take what isn’t yours and that you’ve not as much as mentioned going shopping for new clothes, a phone or anything else…” he trailed off when he took a proper look at his partner.

John had flushed, embarrassed at having his financial situation and his attempts to deal with them laid out like that, and out in public, too.

“I was…I’m going to get a job, don’t worry,” he said, keeping his gaze averted.

“You’ll do no such thing.”

That snapped the doctor’s gaze back up, a flare of anger overtaking the embarrassment to a degree. “You are not stopping me from that. I won’t be your keep-at-home Omega, Sherlock.”

Sherlock frowned. “I’d never expect you to be or ask you to.”

“I will earn my keep.”

“Of course. I wouldn’t expect otherwise.” The frown deepened.

“Then why the hell did you just say I wasn’t allowed to?”

“That was not what I said.”

“’You’ll do no such thing’ amounts to the same bloody thing, and that was what you actually said, word for word.”

Sherlock glared. “If you think that amounts to the same thing, then perhaps you should postpone work until you’ve mastered your interpretation and deduction skills as they’re clearly lacking, if not entirely non-existent!”

John inhaled sharply at that, then pursed his lips and worked his jaw to try and keep moderately calm. It didn’t work. He glanced up at Sherlock, or, more precisely, he glared back.

Then he uttered a terse ‘fine’ and turned around, intending to walk away.

He had no idea where he intended to go; he could hardly go back to Baker Street, could he? He didn’t have anywhere else to go, either. In reality, this was rather a stupid idea and he knew it, but he felt an urge to get away from…not from Sherlock especially, but the reminder that he was broke and massively indebted to his partner before they’d even started.

How could he even pretend to be Sherlock’s equal like this?

_Well, you are most certainly making one hell of a case for yourself like this, aren’t you? Walking away from a minor argument like that, with no set plan as to where to go or what to do, with only your indignant anger being any sort of justification for it. Oh, yes, I can definitely see that._

His fists clenched as he thought that, the knowledge that the inner voice was right adding a sick feeling to the anger. Unfortunately, pure stubbornness continued to propel his footsteps, though they slowed and shortened as he moved.

Or perhaps it was nothing but sheer idiocy. Stubbornness and idiocy were close bedfellows where he was concerned, after all.

He hadn’t managed to get that far away down what was a relatively empty street, however, before his name was called by a familiar baritone. Not commanding, not demanding, but nevertheless insistent. Appealing, perhaps?

Whatever it was, it was said again and again, coming closer as it was repeated, until his arm was grabbed, and he was turned around, not forcefully so but certainly with the same appealing insistence as had been in the Alpha’s voice.

After having turned him, though, Sherlock didn’t attempt to pull him in further or otherwise manhandle him. Instead, he let him be, and stood two feet away from him.

Giving him his space. Respecting him.

_You really are a moron, aren’t you, John? First-class one, too._

“I’m sorry.”

It ought to have been John who said it, but Sherlock beat him to it, and surprised him a little.

“I…I didn’t mean…” he faltered and paused, closing his eyes briefly before trying again, with determination. “I want you to work, John, if that’s what _you_ want. As a doctor, or you could help me. That wasn’t what I meant, though you’re right, I put that tremendously poorly.”

“With you?” the Omega asked, a little derailed by that.

“Yes? Unless you don’t – “

“No, no. I’d like that – and I’m the one who should apologise for overreacting.”

The Alpha reached out a hand, taking John’s in his, slowly enough that John had time to pull away if he wanted, and the blond let him.

“You were perfectly reasonable.”

“No, I wasn’t.”

“Reasonable, then. What I meant was that you’ll have more than sufficient to deal with during the remainder of your pregnancy to worry about getting a job as well.”

“But – “

“Will you…” Sherlock paused a moment, took the hand he already held in both of his, cradling it as he brought it up between them. “Will you allow me to provide for you? Not forever, obviously, but as long as is needed, I’d…I want to provide for my family. Will you allow me that?”

Put like that, quietly, earnestly, honestly, _imploringly_ , how could he refuse? More than that, how could he but feel like a complete idiot for not taking Sherlock’s own instincts, not to mention his wishes, into consideration, and an utter cock-waffle to boot? Of course, he’d want to provide as far as he was able to, regardless of John’s financial situation.

Wouldn’t he have done the exact thing, asked the same question and made the same assumption if the situation had been reversed? He wouldn’t even have thought twice about it.

The look in the brunet’s eyes prevented him from feeling like an utter fool again. Still mostly like a fool but not completely so, and it was mixed with warmth that such a look was directed at him.

 So, instead he decided to pull his clasped hand back towards himself, so that he could kiss the long fingers, keeping eye contact while he did so.

“I will,” he said when he pulled away. “Of course, I will.”

He had planned to say more but before he could, he was pulled into long arms and soundly kissed.

Once he was released, Sherlock tugged at the hand he’d not yet released.

“Hang on, where are we going?”

* * *

Mycroft leaned back in his chair. He’d just received a text which said nothing more than ‘I was right’.

A moment later, though, another text ticked in and elaborated on what the first text had outlined; an ultrasound image showing what looked like two misshapen jelly babies. Which wasn’t far wrong, apart from the jelly aspect.

Despite the joy he felt at knowing that he would soon become uncle not to one but two small terrors, hopefully the first of several, he couldn’t quite muster a smile.

This was mostly because of what he’d just read and what was on his desk. Apart from his usual dealings there was the quartet of issues facing his brother and his mate, at least the four that he would have any involvement in. Taking care of the children, inside the womb or out, that would be their trouble and prerogative.

What he was concerned with was the ongoing issues with the harem owners and the fallout from that. So far, the owners, at least the ones with a semblance of sense, had not come out openly against them. They hadn’t dared to, worried about what would happen, but there wasn’t much time even so, so he needed John to come in and provide some further information.

Then there was the issue of Moriarty. Sherlock had been right, they wouldn’t have seen the last of him, not when he’d showed such an interest in John, before his pregnancy and Sherlock, and Mycroft had promised his little brother that he’d deal with it.

That was what big brothers were for, wasn’t it?

An image of Sherlock, age five, crying and pleading with his brother to find his otter for him, flashed across his mind. Yes, that was what they were for, fixing things and helping, even when they were told they weren’t needed.

The trouble was that there’d been no sign of Moriarty since John and Sherlock’s run-in with him, not from anywhere, and he would still have to tread carefully. He wouldn’t give up, of course he wouldn’t, but neither was he going to jeopardise things by rushing them or not thinking them through.

After all, wasn’t that what little brothers were for?

That thought came more with wistfulness than amusement, and he picked up the file on the harem’s previous locations and the debris left behind them, however small, at each place.

There was work to be done.

* * *

 Where John was dragged off to was not where he’d expected to go, if he’d expected anywhere at all, really. Mostly because he couldn’t imagine Sherlock having much interest in spending time in such places, thinking them boring, which, to be honest, they were.

Then again, he did have quite the extensive, apart from expensive, wardrobe, didn’t he? And those were not off-the-rack clothes, either, far from it. To fit as they did – though the Omega couldn’t say he was complaining, quite the opposite – they would have to be tailored or at the very least bespoke and however you sliced it, that took time. So, he would _have_ to not mind for long enough that at least the measurements could be taken…and take the time to pick out fabrics and colours, too, come to think of it. They matched a little too well to have been picked and matched at random.

So, perhaps it was more John who thought clothing stores were boring. He’d never bothered much beyond what was practical, fitted and didn’t hurt his eyes.

Therefore, finding himself in what could politely be called an upmarket store was not his idea of a good time and he didn’t exactly feel comfortable being in, though he’d have to admit that there was something incredibly endearing about Sherlock’s determination and focus as he moved around the store, the knowledge that it was to help John.

Moreover, and more importantly, he realised something else as more and more clothes were added to the pile that the blond seemed expected to at the very least try on; it wasn’t just the posh store he felt uncomfortable in and it wasn’t because it was posh and consequently expensive.

This…this trip, for lack of a better word, originally to the clinic and subsequently, unplanned for by him, at least, to this store, was the first time he’d been out properly, for any length of time, in public on his own – for a given value of alone, of course, what with the lanky Alpha flitting about – since he’d signed the contract of the harem years prior.

It hit him hard, which he hadn’t expected. Nor had he expected the awareness to come at this time. If he’d expected anything at all, it would’ve been for it to happen when they’d first ventured out, really, the first real meeting with humdrum, everyday life after his sequestered life.

But then, he’d been focused on getting to the clinic and what that appointment might bring, for good or ill. In any case, they hadn’t been out much between Baker Street and the clinic, Sherlock managing to hail a cab almost instantly.

Now, though…with nothing to distract him, it certainly did hit him, and brought with it an odd sense of…not exactly disconnect but the feeling that he was only halfway present in his body, a half-measure of disconnect, as it were.

He didn’t belong here. Not in this precise store, although he certainly wasn’t the target audience, but out there, among the throng of people.

No, of course he did; he had as much right to be there as anybody else, he wasn’t less worthy than them just because of his time in the harem. But like it or not, it set him apart, and not in the positive sense of the phrase, like his time and experience as a soldier had set him apart, like his lack of Heat and proper sent did. All of them things that proved that he didn’t belong, that he would, just like before, be on the outside looking in, with no real hope that it’d be otherwise.

It was only when the sense of calm in both body and mind hit him that he realised the clamour there’d been in his mind, and that he’d gone tense, on edge.

Then he registered the familiar scent and the accompanying body behind him, and he unconsciously leaned back into it and briefly closed his eyes, grateful for the gesture and the timing.

A kiss, gentle and sweet, was placed under his ear.

“We can leave, if you want,” whispered a baritone voice. “We can get them to deliver.”

“It’s fine, Sherlock.”

“It’s abundantly evident that it isn’t, and I’d thank you not to try to pretend things are fine when I can clearly sense they’re not.”

“That’s a bit rich coming from you, isn’t it?” John asked, opening his eyes to look at the brunet.

There was a brief pause at that before an answer came. “Perhaps. The point still stands, however. We’re going home.”

He started to move away, towards an assistant to presumably pay and get them to deliver.

John stood his ground, however, and grabbed Sherlock’s arm to stop him. “No. We’re staying. I’m fine.”

Sherlock looked at him. “You’re not.”

“I...” No, to be honest, he wasn’t, but that wasn’t going to stop him. “I need to learn to deal with this sooner or later.”

At ‘this’, he made a sweeping motion with his arm to indicate the room but more than that, the whole situation. It wasn’t going to go away, that much was evident, and exposure would help him deal with it, surely.

Though he hadn’t specified, he felt sure that Sherlock understood what was meant by ‘this’, too.

The Alpha proved him right when he came closer and lowered his voice. “You are not weak for finding it difficult to cope with this right now, nor is it a failure for you to back away. It’s a tactical retreat, not running away.”

A non-humorous half-smile tugged at the blond’s lips at that. “Is that directed at me or at you?” he asked after a moment.

Sherlock blinked, visibly more than a little thrown. A frown started to appear, the corners of his mouth drew down, and his scent changed slightly, though not with notes that one would’ve expected from the expression.

_And you’ve called him out on something he’s evidently aware that he’s struggling with and now he’s panicking and backtracking – and trying to hide it. Well done, Johnny, you really put your foot in it, didn’t you? Especially since he was being considerate to you and your issues._

“I’m…dammit, I’m an enormous berk, is what I am,” he said, keeping his voice as low as Sherlock had, so as not to alert the store staff that something was amiss, “and I’m sorry, love. You’re right. Thank you.”

A hand was held out after a moment, in what the Omega took as acceptance and understanding, and John grasped it, squeezing it gently, a squeeze which was thankfully returned.

“Thank you,” he repeated, voice warm, giving a small smile and got one back. “Let’s go home.”

He then got a look at what clothes they, or rather Sherlock, had gathered for him and immediately balked.

“You wanted me to try on all of those? We’d have been here hours.”

“Oh, not all. Just a few key items to see whether I’d estimated the fit right for you. There are some items in several colours of the same thing, but I surmised you’d be more amenable to having one style in several colours than having to choose between several styles in the closet.”

Something clicked for John at that, something that made him stare in disbelief at his bond mate.

 “…Sherlock, you’re not…you’re seriously saying you were intending to buy all of those clothes?”

“Not were. Are. Present tense.”

“That’s…” Something which he’d never be able to afford half of when he _would_ pay Sherlock back but, not wanting to rock the boat further after what had just happened, he kept that to himself.

“That’s…” he repeated, clearing his throat,” …far more than I have need for and – is that a suit? I don’t need that, Sherlock, I really don’t. I mean, it’s sweet of you to think of it, and I appreciate that thought, but it’d be wasting your money.”

Sherlock looked at him, eyes slightly narrowed as he did so. No doubt deducing him.

After a moment he said, “You will undoubtedly need it at some point when Mycroft decides to drag us to some ghastly event or other.”

He then lowered his voice, a smile in it,” and even if that won’t be the case, I might just have a vested interest in seeing you in it.”

Put like that…

John had to shift at that, hoping nothing would be visible in his weathered jeans, snug only around his waist.

“Still…it’s far too much, and I might not even fit into it for long.” He glanced down, meaningfully, at his stomach.

The brunet raised an eyebrow at that. “And you don’t think I’ve taken that into consideration?”

“Fair point.”

“You need clothes. In fact, you need a whole wardrobe, whether you want to admit it or not. Quality, and this is quality not just branding, will ensure that the clothes will be hardwearing and outlast several cheaper items, thus rendering the price of an item comparatively cheap.”

Something flashed in John’s mind at that, something about a ‘boots theory of socioeconomic unfairness’, but he couldn’t pin it down further than that and let it go.

“It’s no use arguing, is it?” he asked.

“No,” was the answer. “Though of course that won’t mean you’ll stop.”

“Of course not.”

* * *

In the end, they brought a few sets of clothes home with them immediately, just so that John would have something to wear, and asked for the rest to be sent.

As they rode in the cab back to Baker Street, Sherlock could tell his bond mate was still uncomfortable, not only with the money spent, regardless of what they’d talked about earlier, but the whole experience with what some would call the ‘normal’ world, and he couldn’t help wondering whether he ought to have handled it better.

That thought, that consideration, in itself was still novel for him to experience, in general rather than just this particular case, and as such, he was rather out of his depths and fumbling his way through it with no idea whether he was going in the right direction or even moving.

He would do it, though. Whatever it took, he’d do it. Because underneath the uncertainty was fear that he’d ruin it, this unbelievable, incredible thing that he never thought he’d want but now would do _anything_ to keep.

Knowing that he was being utterly stupid didn’t alleviate it nor did applying intellect and logic to the situation. The reassurances he’d been given by John _had_ made some difference but hadn’t entirely managed to snuff it out.

After all, when had he had something good, something that was his, that he didn’t ruin?

He was brought out of his not-quite-pleasant musings, not by John, sadly, but by his phone buzzing with an incoming text.

He’d sent a text to Mycroft when they’d gotten into the cab. This was also from his brother but was unconnected to their children.

It read, ‘Ruby’s woken up’.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This probably seems inconsequential but it felt necessary to me to establish more of how they'd actually work with problems such as these. It is very new to the both of them. In any case, things will pick up a bit more in the next one, which won't be as long in coming, either. I promise.


	3. Ruby

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ruby has woken up from her coma and John and Sherlock go visit her. To see what state the drug-induced coma has left her in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I took a bit to get it out, after all. I'm sorry. I did try but between real life and working on another fic as well, this was the fastest I could get it out.  
> Thank you all for the amazing feedback and understanding, you are the best readers I could hope for.  
> This shouldn't be horrible, I think, but if I've misjudged and people dealing with fall-outs of such experiences bothers you (which I'm not judging if it does, at all), feel free to skip the chapter. It's not graphic but...I'd rather be safe.

After reading the text, Sherlock debated with himself whether he should show it to John or let him have some peace and quiet to get himself back together once they’d gotten back to Baker Street.

Not that he believed John needed to be shut away or protected or anything like that. His doctor was strong, physically and mentally. It was just…

_That **look** in his eyes when we were in the store. Oh, John…_

But John wouldn’t thank him for keeping such information from him. He’d be far more likely to be pissed off at what he saw as prejudice and condescension and would ignore the day he’d had and how much it would take out of him to go.

Making up his mind to just be right behind John for when he was needed, Sherlock nudged his partner, who was watching the city pass by him, literally but also somewhat metaphorically.

“John?”

“Hm? What is?” It came out slightly muddled, as though through a faint haze of sleepiness.

“Ruby’ awake.”

And just like that, John went from slightly drowsy to high-alert in an instant. After glancing at Sherlock, possibly for confirmation, he gave the cab driver the new address.

The cabbie didn’t comment, just nodded and indicated to head off in the right, new direction.

John turned back to face Sherlock, his eyes flickering down to where the brunet still held his phone, then back up to his face.

“Does it say anything else?” he asked.

Sherlock showed him. It didn’t.

The doctor’s jaw tightened at that, his nostrils widened slightly, and you could see him minutely squaring his shoulders, as though in preparation, which was hardly surprising.

Sherlock felt a desire to assure him that it would be fine, that she’d be as right as rain when they got there but that would be for John’s benefit and furthermore, it’d be lying. He didn’t know whether she would, as there was as much chance, if not greater, that she would’ve suffered permanent damage, either physically or mentally. The pills she had been given had been strong, to say the least, and their effects, as far as they’d been documented, had proven potentially catastrophic.

In short, there was a very good reason they were only obtained through less than legal means.

Their nature was also partly responsible for why she’d only woken up now, though in reality, they might as well have kept her in the clutches of unconsciousness for the rest of her life, at the mercy of her body, which would still go into Heat, while her mind was suffering non-participatory deterioration.

Oh, god, the very thought of having your mind destroyed like that, without his input or any way to prevent or reverse the effect, that was beyond horrifying.

_Says the one who chose to decay his mind for years to try and quieten it? Nothing like being hypocritical._

No, there was a difference between that and this. He’d been in control of that…somewhat in control…and that had been of his own volition. Anyway, he’d stopped a long time ago, hadn’t he? He’d been _able_ to stop, something which this young Omega girl hadn’t been, not under her own steam. Even Heats ended eventually. There was no guarantee this ever would.

It hadn’t been a good experience when John had stubbornly made his way from where they’d been in the hospital to where they were keeping her, to see for himself the state she’d been in. They hadn’t been allowed in, not at the time, and neither of them had felt like pushing the issue. It had been difficult enough looking at her through the window into the room, to be honest.

Sherlock didn’t know her, beyond what he could deduce and had been told, but her unconscious body, unquestionably in the throes of Heat judging by both sight and scent, writhing feebly but with a limpness that went beyond even the worst tail-ends of Heat and a pallor to her skin, had made his skin crawl and his Alpha instincts rise, not to mount her but to protect her from harm.

Beside him, John had been struggling, his fists clenching at his sides, his jaw working, his scent smelling decidedly off as he stared at her. He’d known what she was in for before it had happened, of course he did – he was a doctor, after all, and an extremely skilled one, at that – but knowing and seeing were two different things.

Sherlock had been unable to convince him that he wasn’t at fault for her condition. John hadn’t extended that blame to his Alpha, though, which was ridiculous, if noble. If one of them was to blame for not getting her out in time, they both were, Sherlock arguably more so because he’d been in more of a position to do something.

Voicing that reasonable point was only met with a glare and a short, terse comment about her being his responsibility. Which, again, was ridiculous; she was the responsibility of the harem owners, however poorly they managed it, and although he’d been the keeper of the harem, John hadn’t truly been in the position to do much more than try and stem the tide from their mismanagement.

What he had done, despite all the limitations and obstacles he’d faced, had saved her, and the rest of the harem residents, in the short-term and hopefully in the long-term as well, and the fact that it might not be enough did not make it his failure.

Nor could he take responsibility for her forever. When, or if, she recovered, she needed to live her own life. Not because Sherlock didn’t want her in theirs – he honestly didn’t have any strong feelings on the matter one way or the other – but because both she and John deserved her not being dependent on him. Ideally, she shouldn’t be dependent on anyone but that wasn’t how society worked for Omegas.

That did hinge on her making a recovery, whether it would be a full or partial one, and he would have to admit, he was only hopeful about that for John’s sake.

Which meant that he’d have to be prepared for John’s reaction to whatever state she’d be in, and he couldn’t set too much store in the fact that she was presumably awake enough to have visitors.

He looked at John, who’d returned to looking out of the window, but with the same loaded-spring tension in his body that the information about Ruby had brought out. Looking down, one hand had found his midsection and was drawing circles and patterns on it, in a soothing manner.

They couldn’t be kicking, not at this stage. Could they? He didn't know. Flutters would be more plausible if anything, but it was far more likely that he did it purely as a comforting gesture, as a grounding.

The other hand…that was resting on Sherlock’s knee, fingers curled around the cap, not tightly, not loosely, just…grounding. It hadn’t been moved there consciously, it had just sort of…drifted, as though it was the most natural place in the world for it to rest. The thumb traced similar patterns on the fabric of Sherlock’s trousers.

The whole look, alert and tense, ready for anything he might face, yet innately caring and mindful, struck him as…well, if he could say it, remarkably emblematic of John as a person.

It brought an unbidden and unexpected lump into the brunet’s throat and a warmth in his chest.

_And that person chose to be mine._

His hand moved on its own, not to disturb the other, but to place itself on top of the hand on his knee, covering it without pressing down.

The doctor didn’t speak at that, didn’t move. But the corner of his mouth turned up, just enough for Sherlock to see, which made him smile in turn.

_Together._

 

* * *

 

It was relatively late by the time they got to the hospital and all the way through to the solitary room where she was kept under observation. This was not so that doctors could study her, John had made quite certain of that before they’d left, but to monitor her in case any complications or other unforeseen occurrences. The solitary room, which was firmly secured, had been chosen so that no one would smell her Heat and be overcome by instincts or bright ideas.

When they stopped to look in through the window as they’d done on their previous visit, John felt a breath leave his lungs that he hadn’t been aware he was holding.

She wasn’t sitting up, as such, but the bed had had its head-section elevated to the same effect and it was clear that she was, indeed, awake; her eyes flickered towards them as they stopped, and there was recognition in them, even if it did take an agonising moment to appear. The ghost of a smile flickered across her lips.

A nurse stopped them before they could go in there, saying they couldn’t enter.

“John Watson,” the Omega offered by way of identification and password.

“ _Doctor_ Watson,” Sherlock corrected. The distinction and emphasis were important because they gave John a further legitimacy to be there, not to mention some levity against the nurse in light of the ingrained medical hierarchy still present and enforced in many hospitals.

The fact that it wasn’t immediately obvious that John was an Omega due to his reduced scent output would help that, as he’d assume him either a Beta or an Alpha; their bond was detectable and so was Sherlock’s status as an Alpha, but it wasn’t uncommon for an Alpha and a Beta to bond and not unheard of for two Alphas to do so, either.

That Sherlock only had the distinction of being a tagalong on this was an irrelevant matter.

The nurse frowned, in half-remembrance rather than disbelief. Then his expression cleared.

“Oh, of course. You’re who they meant…I’m sorry, Doctor, I should’ve realised, but…it’s been a long day. I was about to clock off, actually, but I’ll wait outside until my replacement gets here, if you’d like.” There was a hesitation there, odd because it came at the wrong place.

“No, that’s fine,” John said with a smile. “Go on home. Sherlock and I can look after her until your colleague arrives to relieve you.”

The hesitation returned.

“If you do indeed know who John is, then you should also know that he is the last person who would try to harm her,” Sherlock snapped, recognising the hesitation for the protection it was and commending it, but also irked by the implication that his Omega would ever molest someone. “Or in any way interfere with her. Now _go away_!”

The nurse paled at that, both at the words and the way the last sentence was growled. However, he stood his ground, not saying anything as he refused to be chased away.

“If you feel there’s a need for you to stay,” John said, with a glance out of the corner of his eye at Sherlock, a look which held a reprimand wrapped in an appreciative thank you, “then by all means, stay. But I need to see her now that she’s awake. She’s my responsibility.”

His voice was friendly enough, but it held a note of quiet command that expected to be obeyed.

He was proven right when he walked past the nurse to the door and the man moved, almost instinctively, aside to let him through. Sherlock followed, silently, slipping past the man and closing the door behind them.

Inside, he couldn’t help a grin of pride.

John, on the other hand, moved straight towards the bed, keeping his gait at a pace that bridged the distance quickly but wouldn’t scare her.

She followed his movements with her eyes but nothing else seemed to move. No, that wasn’t quite right; her lips were moving, too, but the movement was small enough to be difficult to make out from any distance.

Even so, that there didn’t seem to be even a token effort of movement from her was…worrying, and Sherlock mentally braced himself.

 

* * *

 

John looked her over as he came closer, his heart sinking gradually lower in his chest the more he took in. While some of her appearance could be explained by the general appearance many patients acquired while sick in a hospital, most of it could not.

Her eyes followed him.

A sound came from her lips, small and weak but John heard it, nevertheless. It was, after all, his name.

“I’m here,” he whispered, heart breaking at the way her eyes tried to say what her body could not.

“I’m here, Ruby,” he repeated, taking her hand gently, hoping that she could at least feel it. “I’m sorry, I should’ve…I’m so sorry.”

There was no sound from Sherlock. John turned his head to look for him and found him standing…midway between the bed and the door, as though he wasn’t entirely sure he’d be welcome closer but didn’t think he should stay closer to the door, either.

“John,” repeated Ruby, bringing his attention back on her. “It’s…okay.” Her voice was still weak, but she sounded determined.

He wanted to say, ‘it’s not, how can you say that?’ but realised that wasn’t his call to make. It could be argued that she was only saying it for his benefit but even if that was the case, it still wouldn’t be his call to make, as it wasn’t about him. Whatever the reason, how could he take away what little autonomy she had?

Her eyes looked from him over to approximately where Sherlock stood, given her lack of movement, then back at him, question in them.

“Yes, that’s Sherlock, he’s my bond mate. Long story, I’ll tell you all about it later. I…you can understand me?” he asked, for verification.

“Yes.”

“Good,” he said, giving her a smile that he hoped was as reassuring as he intended it to be. “Has a doctor been to see you yet?”

Since it was late, that wasn’t a given. On the other hand, if Mycroft knew that she was awake, someone must’ve informed him, and it was hardly likely to have been any of the nurses that made the call, their authority not stretching that far. So, someone of sufficient standing would’ve looked at her, especially likely given the observation she’d been under since her admission.

She managed an affirmative and added, with a bit of effort, that the doctor hadn’t told her anything.

That she clearly did understand him and was able to answer, for an admittedly given value of answering, gave him some hope. It was modulated and somewhat frail, but it was there. It was born of the knowledge that within the first few hours, it was difficult and fraught with inaccuracy at this state to judge the state people were in, in cases like this, and the fact that even so, even at this early point, her mind was working well enough for her to speak understandable sentences, if somewhat short and simplistic, rather than mostly gibberish.

If her mind was still there enough to not only speak, which required far more of you than people tended to give it credit for, but also to recognise him, there was hope that she could make a recovery. Perhaps not a full one, that might be a touch too optimistic, but maybe enough that she could have a good life, regardless.

A horrible thought crossed his mind, mostly so because of what it reflected of the world; in this state, the risk that she’d end up in the claws of the type of Alpha that frequented the harem was slim to none. They didn’t particularly like damaged goods, after all; though it could be argued that it would make her appealingly docile and easy to control, she wouldn’t be much of a piece of arm-candy and that was as much what they were after as anything.

Though, if he was honest, some of the horribleness of it came from the feeling of relief he felt.

Sherlock had moved without John noticing and was now standing significantly closer, the blond could feel him, but still with some distance, as though he didn’t dare come closer.

That puzzled John somewhat. Why would he be hesitant about that, of all things, and why now? He hadn’t been shy about being close at other times, quite the opposite. Was there something about Ruby that repulsed him so much?

A flash of anger, born out of instinctive protectiveness – despite what society tended to espouse to its population, protective and possessive instincts weren’t exclusively the prerogative and burden of Alphas, although it tended to manifest a little differently for Omegas – surged through him at the thought before rational thinking rushed onto the scene to administer some common sense and knowledge about his bond mate.

Of course, he wasn’t repulsed by her. Though their bond was new and their time together relatively short, John had already sussed that it wasn’t the ugly parts of life that he had any issues with, it was the interpersonal relation that he was utterly out of his depths with.

_But he’s trying, isn’t he?_ asked his inner voice. _Despite how difficult he’s finding it, he’s persistently trying – just look at how he handled your temper tantrum outside the clinic, for one, phrasing it so carefully, to something that would be acceptable to you. He’s giving it his very best, in his own way. And what do you do? Let your prejudices and anger rule as often as not._

He couldn’t deny either point, much as he wanted to on the last one.

If Sherlock was unsure of what to do, the very least John could do was try and help him.

So, he reached his free hand out behind him, hoping that the implications would get across.

To his relief, he felt a bony hand grip his almost immediately, and he pulled to indicate he wanted him closer. Sherlock moved right up behind him without question.

“Should I find the doctor?” he asked as soon as he got close, keeping his voice low but not so low that Ruby couldn’t hear him. Her eyes stayed on the Alpha, but she didn’t seem afraid.

John shook his head. “No. Send the nurse to find him or her – he’ll know where they are and can bring them here quickly.”

“And if they’ve gone home for the night?”

“Then they’ll know how to contact them.”

He felt a kiss behind his ear. “And you’re sure you don’t want the pleasure of contacting them yourself instead?”

John gave an amused snort at that but again shook his head. “Tempting but no. Thank you, though.”

“Can’t you…see yourself?” Ruby asked. “You were…always good with…I don’t mind…you touching me…”’

To smile at that hurt a little. “I won’t. I’m not your…your doctor anymore, am I?”

He didn’t say keeper, because he wasn’t entirely sure the nurse wasn’t trying to listen in. Not for any malicious purposes but just because there was a culture of nosiness between staff at most hospitals, especially where the hierarchy was more rigorously enforced; it was a relatively safe way for Omega, and to a lesser extent Beta, staff to get back at their Alpha colleagues, who were most often their superiors.

Though he hadn’t technically been her doctor, the more accurate term of keeper was distinct enough to be instantly recognisable, with all the negative connotations and prejudices that might entail. Of course, he knew that there would hardly be likely to be positive connotations. Even so, if anyone knew he had been the keeper of a harem, he could be facing repercussions, and not necessarily of a purely social kind.

This would always be the case, obviously; his past didn’t just disappear, but until he had established himself fully and properly as a person of society again, one who people would find so ordinary that they didn’t even think to look closer, he would have to be extra careful.

Harems were illegal, after all, and so was any position linked with them. Even so, he wasn’t ashamed of it. The Omegas and Betas would’ve been in the illegal harem regardless of whether he’d been there or not, and he knew that without him to care for them and act as a buffer, a lot of the ‘members’ would’ve been far worse off than they’d been.

A thought struck him, and it wasn’t pleasant.

“Ruby, has anybody touched you? While you’ve been awake, has anyone touched without permission, or where they shouldn’t?”

“No, don’t think…so,” she said after what seemed like far too long a pause.

“Can you…can you feel if you’re touched?” he then asked as the possibility that she couldn’t occurred to him. “Like this?”

Although he was already grasping her hand, a new touch might be better felt without being uncomfortable if she was more aware of it, and so he released her hand to touch the side of her face, giving her ample time to see it and say no if she didn’t want it.

She made no sound, but her eyes followed the movement of his hand and closed briefly when he made contact.

“Can feel it,” she said. “Felt your hand…too. Was warm.” She let out a huff of an almost-laugh, possibly to substitute for a smile

So…though he hadn’t checked every part of her body to make sure it was all over, at least part of her somatosensory system was functional and seemingly fully functional, if she could feel a light touch like his hand had made, and know his hand felt warm.

It may not be much – if he was brutally honest, it was pitifully little in the grand scheme of things – but it was _something_ , something to hopefully build from, to rehabilitate her on.

So he _had_ to believe.

_And for whose sake is that, exactly?_

_Shut up._

“That…that’s good,” he said, his voice soft. “That’s a good start, anyway.” He smiled a little, to cover that he had trouble saying more while keeping his voice calm.

“Please don’t be…sorry, John, I know you…did what you could,” she managed to say. Her eyelids fluttered. “I…”

Her eyes closed fully before she could finish her sentence.

“Ruby?”

“She won’t hear you,” Sherlock commented from behind.

“You didn’t get the doctor here?” John asked, though he knew that already; Sherlock hadn’t left the room.

“Judging from the exhaustion exhibited in relation to the time needed to locate and extricate the person in question, the ability to gain any useful information from said doctor is slim, so no.”

“She wouldn’t need to understand what the doctor says.”

“I wasn’t talking about Ruby.”

John turned, still holding onto the other’s hand. “Me?”

“Yes, _obviously_. Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed.” Sherlock looked him up and down, assessing him but not outright deducing him.

“I’m – “John started but stopped at the expression on Sherlock’s face, which wasn’t imperious or even challenging. Instead, it was quietly imploring and…concerned? Well, why not concerned? Why shouldn’t he be concerned?

Even though he’d been about to say that he was, he wasn’t fine. Not actually, when he took the time to consider instead of just ploughing on to get things done. He wanted to do right by Ruby, make sure that she was okay, of course he did, and her condition broke his heart. But on the other hand, if he was dead on his feet, he’d be no good to her, or to his children.

Tugging at the hand he held, Sherlock tried to pull him closer and John went with it.

“I’ll get the notes from the doctor on her,” the Alpha promised as he nosed into the blond hair, inhaling deeply a few times. “But you need some rest.”

“Get them tomorrow.” No, tomorrow wasn’t good enough. “Bugger that. Let’s get them before we leave. That way, it’s less likely they’ve been altered, and I can read them – “

“Tomorrow.”

“Sherlock, I need to know. If I’m to help her, I need to have as much information as possible – “

“Tomorrow,” the Alpha repeated, insistent but gentle. “You’re in no fit state now nor will you be when we get home. I’ll look over them for you tonight, if you want, but only if you rest.”

A part of John was offended, another was touched, and yet another lauded Sherlock for thinking of it and offering to help, again. A small part of him, which might be proof that he was indeed tired, found the last sentence oddly amusing.

“Are you blackmailing me? Isn’t that a bit early in the relationship?” he consequently asked.

Sherlock’s brow wrinkled in wary confusion and slight offense before he saw the warmth in the blue eyes, and it clicked. He smiled.

“Shouldn’t we start as we mean to go on?” he countered.

The blond giggled at that, then, remembering they weren’t alone and might disturb her, immediately looked over at the bed’s occupant.

She hadn’t moved, of course, but her eyes were still closed, in a way indicating proper unconsciousness rather than a feigned one, but when he held a hand over her parted mouth, the breath felt indicated she was alive, too.

Sherlock tugged at his hand.

“Home, John.”

After one last look at her, he let himself be led away.

 

* * *

 

As it transpired, getting the files was no hassle; the nurse who’d stayed outside had indeed been listening in, but not because he was looking for any bit of gossip. Well, not more than was likely second-nature, and it was more than made up for by his helpfulness.

They were barely out of the door when he’d come up to them, saying that he’d paged the doctor in question while they’d been in there and he was now on his way to meet them, with a copy of the file in tow.

John was disbelieving of the accommodating nature, not of the nurse but of the doctor, in the circumstances.

Sherlock, however, knowing that his brother couldn’t help but have a finger in as much of this as possible and had probably pulled a string or two, surreptitiously, of course, to make said doctor a little more…amenable, put a hand on the Omega’s shoulder to forestall his questions.

The theory was born out by the strained smile, minute twitch to his eye and the scent coming off the Alpha doctor.

Their trip home in the cab was quiet, mostly because John, true to Sherlock’s predictions of tiredness, had fallen asleep about ten minutes after they’d gotten into the car.

He’d slumped to the side, resting his head against Sherlock’s shoulder almost instinctively, as though it was the only logical place for him to sleep. As if he _belonged_ there.

The consulting detective had been busy pouring over what was in the file when he felt the head fall onto his shoulder, the warm body next to him pressing even closer. Jolted out of his thoughts, he turned his head and felt his heart skip a beat at the sight.

_And you thought he’d be an onus, didn’t you?_

Well…yes…he had – and why hadn’t he deleted that, anyway? But he hadn’t _known_ then, had he? He couldn’t have known that John was that perfect of a match for him, could he? How could he? People tolerated Sherlock, and that was at best.

He hadn’t ever wanted a mate, that was true, but neither would anyone ever have wanted him, beyond the instinctual. It would never have been an issue, or so he’d always thought.

John Watson was the exception to a lot of rules, it seemed.

He wriggled his arm until he could snake it around the Omega’s waist and pull him closer, as much as the seatbelt would allow. Then he placed a soft kiss on blond hair, nosing into it a little.

No, this wasn’t how he’d ever imagined his life would pan out, and possibly a past version of himself would’ve been disgusted by what he’d see, with some choice deductions and sneering comments to boot. Probably, even.

But he didn’t care. Not if it meant going back to being alone, being without John.

He inhaled long and deep, basking in the still utterly delicious scent that had only gotten better with the upper notes of pregnancy and the soupcon of his own scent mingling with the base notes.

Humming slightly in contentment, he let the papers be for the time being – he could read those back at the flat, once he’d gotten the Omega into bed – to just enjoy this moment and fix it in his memory.

 

* * *

 

Mycroft had gone home for the night but that didn’t equal that he’d finished work. It wasn’t always the case but more often than not, he’d take some home work with him, to pour over without the distractions of degrees of incompetence, and the risk that something would find its way out that really should never have seen the outside of the government offices.

He trusted his people, for a given value of trust. That was just how it worked when you had so many people seeing government as a place where they could advance without most of the outside gender limitations. That was not remotely how it worked, but the myth was persistent. By the time people worked it out, most of their careers had been spent in the pursuit.

What he’d taken home with him this night was something of a more personal nature. A familial one.

Moriarty and the harem were connected to previously established work and while this technically was connected to the harem, too, it was different.

It was different for a lot of reasons. The main, one, however…

The main one was because he’d made a promise. One he was going to keep whatever it’d take to do so.

He’d taken his work home tonight because that promise now had a tangible, if extremely frail thread to hang from.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have pulled somewhat from my own experiences of waking from an induced coma and my prognosis and issues, so there's some precedent, at least. For the rest, I hope it's been believable enough, even if it's not exactly a light, easy path in front of her. I hope you'll forgive me.  
> I know this could be seen as a sidenote to the plot but I didn't want to forget about Ruby, either. It's still interesting to build snippets of the world like this, though.


	4. Coming closer together

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John both have worries and insecurities about themselves and their relationship. Prompted by Sherlock's research into Alpha behaviour, they end up talking about some of them, trying to reassure and help each other through it, as friends and bond mates.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm very sorry this has taken so long to get out. I haven't abandoned it but I have had it on a writing hiatus for a bit because it just...well, anyway, a huge thank you to Edid-Edward and Justbecause421 for helping me over that bump with your amazing comments.

Sherlock sat with his computer in front of him, the file papers strewn across half the keyboard. It was the early hours of the morning, but he’d only been working for an hour.

He’d meant to spend the night reading through the files and do some further research. When they’d gotten in, though, he’d found himself more concerned with getting John to genuinely _rest,_ for more than the relatively short time they’d spent in the cab. So, he had to make sure he got some food inside him, then straight to bed.

Thankfully, Mrs. Hudson had had mercy on him, probably mostly because she’d been charmed by John when they’d been to visit; she’d provided a tray of teatime sandwiches for them which was in the fridge along with some juice.

He’d gotten John to eat, though he’d been coerced into eating a few sandwiches, as well. After that, he’d gotten the by then swaying man out of his clothes and into the bed that had been his but which he now thought of as ‘theirs’, intending to leave it at that and go do his research immediately afterwards.

However, he’d lingered in the doorway and glanced back at the figure in the bed, looking…not exactly small, or weak but…and it looked wrong.

He’d divested himself of shirt and trousers and climbed into bed where he’d folded himself around the stockier body, enjoying the feel of it against him and the knowledge that he was there. Of course, the familiar residual scent of himself embedded in the linen starting slowly to combine with John’s hadn’t detracted, either.

It wouldn’t hurt to stay for just a bit. Or so he’d thought.

He’d woken up some hours later, when the weak almost-morning light had just started to filter through the curtains. John was still asleep, snoring lightly with his face pressed into the pillow, while the rest of his body had lain on its front.

Sherlock had been lying on top of him, not quite pushing him down into the mattress but a close enough thing. As soon as he’d realised, he’d pushed off, worried that he’d inadvertently applied pressure where it could cause damage.

John had looked and smelled alright but that wasn’t necessarily enough of a clue. Sherlock had gotten out of bed as quickly and as quietly as possible, slipping into dressing gown and pyjama pants before he’d left the room. John hadn’t woken.

So, some of the research he’d been doing in the time he’d been awake hadn’t been on Ruby and her condition, whether there was any precedent on such a small scent output as his Omega’s or if it could be triggered by a traumatic event. It had instead been on how you best took care of your Omega and how to curb and control instincts in a series of different situations.

It was one thing that he could deal with his instincts and John’s pregnancy _now_ but managing it when he was heavy with two babies…that might prove far more difficult, and he wanted to be prepared. As prepared as he possible could, anyway.

Frustratingly but not surprisingly, sadly, much of the information had been contradictory and without much support other than ‘my mum swore by it’ or ‘traditional wisdom holds’. At least, that’s what he’d found initially. Digging deeper, he’d unearthed some studies on the Alpha instincts during pregnancies, one of which was conducted by a rather ill-reputed university. The two others, though, looked considerably more reputable and what was more, useful.

Those two he’d been going over, finding several points that he made sure that he saved to his hard drive.

One thing that did frustrate him with these more thorough and frankly scientific studies was that even though they went through many aspects of Alpha behaviour that would properly explain, and most often overrule, ‘motherly wisdom’, neither of them spoke of whether this was all still the case when it was a scent bond.

In fact, neither mentioned scent bonds at all. Nothing, not even the briefest of comments or links to other studies covering it. It was as though their existence hadn’t even occurred to people who’d published the paper.

He unconsciously bared his teeth in frustration. Scent bonds were not exactly common but there should be _something_. How could they conduct a study and presumptuously label it complete without so much as _alluding_ to the occurrence of scent bonds and their general affect on the bonded couple, relation to pregnancy or not.

Further trawls of the world wide web left him with more dubious studies and suspect wisdom, titbits and half-formed theories. Page after page scrolled past his eyes, all of them useless. Useless!

He shot up from his seat, the laptop clacking shut as it landed on its corner on the floor, luck more than anything keeping it intact. Then he began to pace.

There had to be something. Something that concretely and definitively told him how not to screw this up by not having himself under control. He was always in control, he had been since he’d gotten over his Time of Presenting…apart from the time he’d let drugs take the control from him…the _point_ was that it hadn’t been his instincts in the driving seat since his Time.

Not until he’d met John and the reins had been wrested from him entirely.

No, that wasn’t fair, neither on John nor him. Neither was to blame. The fact that his instincts had taken over then remained, however, and while he’d managed to control himself for the most part since, he couldn’t be certain he could continue that.

If what the studies claimed were true – they did both have sections on twins and multiples and how that differed from the ‘standard’ of a single child – it’d be enough to test the control of most Alphas. While he was hardly most Alphas, even on a bad day, there was still the unknown factor of the scent bond and its depths.

Would it prove to be a bane? A boon? Somewhere in between? He needed to _know_ , to have absolute certainty, for both their sakes. For their children’s sake.

_For your job, too, surely, and most importantly so?_ It didn’t sound as his normal inner voice, not quite. It was, for lack of a less fanciful term, nastier. _With instincts driving you, you can’t work a case, can you? You’ll be just like every other idiot out there, bound by your baser qualities, unable to navigate through logic and deductions, to run and sprint and take risks, to solve a case. Unable to soar, shackled to your mate and your offspring, doomed to humdrum banality as your mind slowly rots away. Everything you’ve ever worked for, everything you’ve managed to accomplish, drowned in –_

_Shut up, shut up, shut up!!_

It only registered that he’d picked up an abandoned, half-full mug of tea and thrown it when it clanged like a porcelain clapper against a metal bell against the corner of the mantelpiece, then fell onto the tiles in front of the fireplace, breaking into three pieces, what little tea that hadn’t described a messy arch in the air flowing out between them.

Sherlock stared at it, not quite comprehending what had just happened.

He’d…lost control…again, the thing he’d been so worried about. But it hadn’t been instincts that had done the damage this time, and yet…but…

Continuing to stare, somewhat in disbelief, he didn’t hear the door to his, their, bedroom quietly click open and bare feet pad towards him. He did, however, notice when John came into his vision, also staring down at the ceramic crime scene.

“Favourite?” he asked, looking up at Sherlock.

“…what?” Either he’d been out and hadn’t heard all of what had been said or it was one mighty non-sequitur.

“Was that a favourite of yours?” John repeated. He stepped closer, the frown that wrinkled his brow and the set to his mouth indicating that he wasn’t taking the piss or failing to understand the situation.  Still, though, it seemed a strange comment. “The mug, I mean. It’d be a blow, that.”

He sighed. “I can smell you, you know. Well, yeah, you do know. You ought to, anyway, you’re able to scent my moods.”

“I…I’m sorry if I woke you.”

The Omega gave a fleeting smile at that which looked odd with his frown. He sat down in the one chair in front of the fireplace, the one Sherlock had just abandoned, and pulled the Alpha to him.

“I’d rather you wake me if there’s something bothering you rather than having to find out through scent. You know, tell me what’s wrong, that sort of thing. Which I know, yes, pot and kettle, but…” He paused, looking up at the standing, almost looming, man.

The oddness of his comments suddenly clicked.

_He’s worried but downplaying it with humour…no, wrong. He’s trying to defuse the perceived anger and agitation, without being submissive or becoming a target. Still worried but attempting to make the best of the situation._

That thought filled him with warmth and did, indeed, defuse a good portion of his anger and agitation. Not so much it vanished altogether but enough so that it was once again within his control.

_My John. My **clever** John._

It also made him ashamed that even a part of his mind had thought John a shackle, a hindrance to his life, forcing him to give up what and who he was.

If he had a problem with that, then he shouldn’t have pursued the man in the first place. He could’ve refrained from his further research, he could’ve ignored John’s asking for help, or merely passed it onto Mycroft, who would’ve had his opportunity to bring the harem down, without Sherlock’s further input.

Even with the pull of the scent bond, he could’ve decided to merely have it dissolved, however that would work. Or he could’ve kept it at that, refusing to bond with John further. Insisted the Omega had an abort-

The _point_ was, there’d been plenty of opportunities for him to apply the brakes if he didn’t want this, plenty of time to contemplate just what it might entail and what consequences there would be. And he had considered, hadn’t he? Yet here he was, each step taken with his eyes open, with as much knowledge of what his decisions would mean as he could’ve possessed, always dependent on non-predictable John.

Based on that, how could he ever have had even the inkling of thinking of his mate like that, whatever part of his psyche that had crawled out from?

The shame didn’t abate.

He felt a touch on his hip, sliding upwards over his bare stomach. It was soft and ought to have been hard to feel, if not be ticklish. Instead, the palm touching his skin felt reassuring and, when it pressed a little more firmly, rather grounding.

It still amazed him that John had such a profound and positive effect on him. That only made the shame a few notches worse.

There wasn’t only one way that he could screw this up, it seemed. Either it would be by way of his body through his instincts and biology, or it would be his mind, pulling apart and poisoning everything it touched.

The touch turned into a slap, not hard enough to hurt beyond the initial impact and a residual stinging, but enough to get his attention. Again.

“What’s the matter, love?” John asked once pale eyes found his.

Sherlock didn’t even consider brushing him off. Not only would it be abundantly evident that that was a lie, it’d be making consideration that John hadn’t asked for. What he was asking for was the truth, and Sherlock would give it.

“I…I don’t know how I’ll behave, when you grow bigger and my instincts rise in tandem,” he confessed, “which every study I’ve found claims is inevitable. I cannot guarantee I’ll be in control, then, and I…I’m afraid of what will happen.”

It wasn’t easy to say the last part, not easy to admit that he was afraid, but he needed to.

John didn’t immediately answer. Instead he cocked his head a little, even as it was already tilted backwards to look up at the other, just regarding his mate. Sherlock stood there, letting him.

After what seemed like a long time, John finally spoke. “This ties into you suddenly rolling off me earlier, doesn’t it? You wouldn’t believe such studies unless they correlated with and corroborated knowledge you were already in possession of, but whether that knowledge was self-derived, as it were, that’s another matter.”

“John – “ Sherlock started but the Omega held up a hand and he stopped.

“You do realise how many Alphas I’ve had to deal with, yeah? Not just in the military or the harem.” It was framed as a question but not an accusation or a dismissal of Sherlock’s findings, which was oddly comforting.

“But they weren’t bonded to anyone in the harem, otherwise they wouldn’t have let them stay there.”

“No, that’s true,” John conceded. “Or, at least, they weren’t always bonded to the Omegas they visited and, not uncommonly, knocked up. That doesn’t mean the instincts aren’t capable of surfacing, not even when they didn’t take a fancy to the Omega in question and then bond with them, though of course in that case, I wouldn’t see them for long after that.”

He paused to grab the bony hand again and squeeze it. “It doesn’t matter what the circumstances are, Alphas tend towards the same reactions, born out of the same instincts, especially when their partner, Omega or Beta, has been impregnated.”

“Surely, that’s confirmation, then.”

“Yes, and no. Though I don’t know exactly which studies you’ve found, I can make an educated guess on at least one of them, since it’s been the leading study since before I finished med school, and we were expected to read it. That looked at the chemical reactions, including hormonal, that occurs when an Alpha is put through the wringer that is a pregnant partner, isolating which ones occurred in different groups, including bonded versus non-bonded and an Omega or Beta partner, and correlating those findings with the instinctual behaviour, linking particular behaviours with specific concentrations of this or that chemical.”

A hand came up again to forestall Sherlock making any comment there, and he continued. “That seems all well and good and thorough, and for the time, I suppose it was. What they did _not_ look at was how that instinct was then handled by the brain. Instincts can be overridden by rationale, you know that, and though it can be harder for some to achieve it, it’s far less common for Alphas to be a slave to their instincts than society, and the study, would have you believe. At least, when it comes to a pregnant partner. You cannot account for what idiocy people have always displayed, obviously.”

“But you know all this, surely. So, what’s really gotten under your skin?” Then it seemed to click. “Oh. The scent bond, is that it? Of course, stupid of me. None of the studies mention it, I take it?”

Sherlock shook his head, internal pride waving a banner high at John remembering the study, which he had indeed looked at, his reasoning based on it, and not least, his ability to immediately link to the scent bond.

“Right. Okay. That is a factor. But not an insurmountable one.” He saw Sherlock’s expression. “You won’t harm us, Sherlock, I know it.”

“That’s an awful lot of trust.” The continuation of the sentence that ran ‘to place in someone you haven’t known long, someone like me’ went unsaid.

Nevertheless, it seemed that John heard it, because his mouth became a thin line and his eyes narrowed just a fraction, enough for the Alpha to notice.

Then his lips pursed for a moment before they spread in a smile that was both as sweet and as fabricated as a stick of rock.

“So…what you’re saying is that I’m at fault?” he asked, his voice matching his smile. “That I made a wrong decision, an uninformed and ill-advised decision when I decided to bond with you?”

What? No! No, that wasn’t what he was saying at all, not –

But it _was_ , wasn’t it? Perhaps not in so many words, and not purely because it hadn’t been spoken out loud, but the essence was there, and that essence wasn’t exactly pleasant.

“I...” he started then stopped. Swallowed a lump. Tried again. “I’m sorry. That wasn’t what I meant to…I’m _proud_ to call you my bond mate.”

His tongue felt awkward and difficult to control, which was a novel but not welcome experience. Nevertheless, he persevered. “I will never not be proud of that. Please believe me. That is not what the problem is. But I’m afraid that…that I will fail you, that you place your trust in an unknown quantity, a gamble you cannot afford to lose.”

There. He’d said it. Or at least, he’d articulated most of what he was feeling in that regard.

“It’s not you that I don’t trust.”

He waited with breath he didn’t realise was bated for an answer. Anything, really.

What he got wasn’t what he expected; John looked at him, warmth, incredulity, worry, sympathy, empathy and love dancing in those blue eyes, but he hardly got time to examine all those emotions before a quick, hard, and unexpected whack of hand and arm to the back of his knees caught him by surprise and sent him off-balance.

He didn’t manage to catch himself before he sprawled all over his Omega in the chair. Not really sprawled though. It would be more accurate to say that he’d somehow managed to fall so that he half-sat, half-lay around the still seated figure of his bond mate, touching him but in no way crushing him.

His expression as he stared at the other conveyed a deep sense of ‘what the hell was that for?’ which deepened when he got a smile for his trouble, slightly enhanced by the twisting of his neck to look at Sherlock.

“Proving a point,” John said, as if in answer to his unspoken question.

“What point?”

“That your instincts aren’t exclusively something to loathe, battle and resist.” He gestured at the way Sherlock was practically curled around him, the width of the arms and back of the chair assisting him in staying in place along with his closeness to John and his lanky but wiry body. “Just like that there, for instance.”

“Basing your study on a single datapoint is bound to have a faulty conclusion.”

“And we’re back to the pot and kettle. Isn’t that just what you’ve done with regard to the negative side of your instincts, or at least the ones that affects our bond? You’ve even extrapolated from them.”

“Hardly,” Sherlock scoffed. “John, I’m serious.”

“Yes, of course. So am I. I’m not trying to undermine your fear and your worries, love, or dismiss them, because I get them. I really do. Don’t you think I’ve had a lot of worries in that regard, too? But you instinctively curled around me, protecting me from your own, involuntary harm.”

He sighed. “I’m just trying to say that good or bad, they are your instincts. They’re not going away.”

“I did fine before,” the brunet snapped.

An odd and not entirely pleasant expression flitted across his mate’s face at that and Sherlock could’ve bitten his tongue.

He sat up, somehow managing to squeeze himself into a seat beside the blond, pale eyes fixed on blue, imploringly. “John, that wasn’t…I didn’t…I don’t want to go back there. Back to where and what I was, without you. But it’s…” He trailed off.

“Too good to be true?” John finished for him, his voice quiet, the smidgeon of amusement in the wry, to say the least.

Sherlock blinked at him, thrown a little by the unexpected accuracy of the otherwise trite cliché. Then he nodded.

The wryness was more pronounced in the small chuckle John let out at that which grew to a quiet laugh. Nevertheless, there was something cathartic in it and Sherlock found himself joining in, the tension draining out of him.

“We’re a right pair of berks, aren’t we?” the blond said at last.

“True,” Sherlock conceded. “But at least we’re a matched set. That has to count for something.”

“We’ll fetch a better price at auction?”

The Alpha stiffened at that and so did the Omega when he realised what he’d said. Gingerly, Sherlock slid an arm around John’s shoulder and was allowed to pull him, so his head rested close to the comforting scent emanating from his scent gland.

“I failed them.” It didn’t even come out small, it came out flat, which was worse.

“You didn’t. You helped them escape.”

“They weren’t the first, Sherlock. I’ve been working there for years. There’s been countless going through that harem alone while I’ve been there – “

He stopped, clenched his teeth and brought the heel of his palms up to press against his closed eyes. Harsh, slightly ragged breaths were audible.

“It’s stupid. I know it’s stupid. To get emotional about it, about them _now_. I signed the contract, I knew what happened.”

“You didn’t.” Sherlock had had a chance to look at the contracts. Not obviously all of them but the ones with significant differences, and of course, he’d looked at John’s. “Not then.”

“Perhaps but I knew soon enough. If I had a problem, I should’ve done something about it sooner. Not just patch up the pieces they handed back when they were done and try to weather the bleeding storm.”

“And what, exactly, would you have done?” Sherlock asked, bluntly. “Fought the owners single-handedly? Bought them all out? Smuggled them through tunnels dug with a spoon?”

“No, of _course_ not!” John snapped then seemed to gather himself, at least to some degree. He didn’t remove his hands from his eyes. “I know how ridiculous it is! I know I did the best in the situation that I could, that they had all the leverage they needed while we had none, that they prey on vulnerability and the social construct that Omegas are taught, and that without outside help, like yours, it’d have been a fool’s hope, at _best._ I _know_ all that!”

“Then why are you beating yourself up over it?” Sherlock asked, genuinely mystified as well as rather worried. “Especially when you know that at least for the harem you were at, which is the only one you ever could’ve had any influence over, there are no longer any Omegas or Betas being exploited and there never again will be. You’ll be a large part of ensuring that.”

“I don’t know!”

It would be reasonable to expect him to shout or scream or otherwise have an outburst when uttering the words. It certainly wouldn’t be unreasonable, given the frustration and anguish etched to the point of bleeding into that sentence.

But that wasn’t how it came out. It came out quiet and, though not exactly small…defeated, somehow. It was the vocal equivalent of shoulders sagging down suddenly and heavily.

“I don’t know…I really don’t…it feels like them but hormonal outbursts due to pregnancy should either be over, and I’ve _had_ those, or they shouldn’t have manifested yet. Because you’re right, I do know all of that. All of it and you know what? It doesn’t make a blind bit of difference. I still feel as though I’ve failed them because however unreasonable it is to say otherwise, I have. And I can’t do shite about it because they’re some bastard’s property in all but monetary transaction and that’s still how the actuality of the law works.”

He had to take a breath at that. Sherlock stayed quiet, allowing as much of it to come out as John wanted to divulge.

“And normally, when I’ve thought about it, it fills me purely with anger. Now, though…I don’t even know what I feel. It’s got to be hormonal to be this arbitrary and forceful, but it shouldn’t have an effect. Not after I got through bond deterioration with almost no reaction, other than what you’d expect from it. Which is preciously little, I know, but – and now I’m bloody well rambling, too. Fuck!”

It suddenly clicked in Sherlock’s mind. “That’s it!”

“What? The rambling?”

“No, the bond deterioration. The scent bond!”

“That’s the cause?” He didn’t ask whether he was sure. “But how?”

“I don’t know,” Sherlock admitted, not afraid to do so. It was John, after all. “It’s only a theory, and it needs testing, verification, but it seems the most plausible, given the circumstances.”

“What, take one thing that doesn’t make a lot of sense, link it with something else that we don’t understand, and that makes it suddenly plausible?”

“Of course, it doesn’t,” Sherlock snapped. “Not on its own, smashed together like a kid playing with molecule models. But what we do know is that the scent bond does have an effect, even now that we are bonded. What we don’t know is what exactly that effect is or how far into the regular bond it stretches. Judging on what we’ve experienced from it, it’s amplified instincts and certain feelings and reactions – “

“Hang on,” John interrupted, voice unexpectedly sharp. “Just wait one damn minute. I’m not having you whittling my feelings and reactions down to having been mostly amplified instincts caused by a bond neither of us understands and certainly not fully.”

“That wasn’t what I said at all, if you’d listen for five seconds instead of letting your own bleeding prejudices and bone-headedness pave the way for your thinking – “

Sherlock stopped, his mouth closing with an audible snap. John looked about as surprised and slightly unnerved as he felt and had sucked his bottom lip in a little to gnaw on it.

“I’m sorry,” John said after a moment or two, “there must be something to at least the part with the hormonal imbalance being linked to the scent bond, after all, because I think I might be rubbing off on you.”

“I think that if it rubs off at all, and I’m not dismissing that it does, then it’s a two-way street,” Sherlock replied. “It would make sense that my agitation earlier affected you enough to wake you.”

It should be odd and maybe off-putting. Instead, the thought that John on a subconscious, though granted not necessarily instinctual, level had known something was wrong even before he’d woken up to know the scent was off, and had sought to remedy the situation without grovelling or catering to the Alpha’s wants rather than his actual needs…that thought filled Sherlock with pride and the warmth of deep affection.

He moved even closer around his mate than he already was, if that was possible.

“I couldn’t just have been woken by a noise or had had enough sleep by that point?”

“You slept soundly enough that you didn’t even stir when I left the bed, whatever your subconscious might have registered about my movements.”

“Okay, fair enough. If it’s a back-and-forth, though, doesn’t that make us more susceptible to mood swings and…other such instances?” Sherlock didn’t need to hear it to know what was being alluded to. “Especially with the pregnancy, it’s almost inevitable that there’ll be some. That’s not saying that I don’t think you can control yourself or your instincts will rule you, or me. Not at all, because I fully believe you can, and they won’t. But – “

“Unknown variables always run the potential risk of upsetting and ruining the planned experiment,” Sherlock finished for him.

A smile found its way onto John’s lips quite on its own at that.

“As it were,” he said. “But yeah, more or less what I meant, give or take a less scientific wording.” He sighed but was still smiling. “I know we can’t plan for it because that’s not how it works, but perhaps we can learn more about what to expect, at least.”

“Most certainly,” Sherlock agreed. He placed a hand on John’s stomach, rubbing softly. “Among other areas.”

The tension seemed to have slowly leaked out for them both, which was a relief, in more ways than one.

“Hey, I am a doctor, you berk. I do know what happens in a pregnancy.”

_Not to mention you have practical experience_ , Sherlock thought but didn’t voice out loud. There was no need right then and there.

“You didn’t realise that you are carrying twins,” he said instead, raising an eyebrow. “In fact, you were adamant that you’re only carrying one.” He caressed the expanse for emphasis.

It really was amazing how much such a simple action could elicit inside him. Not that it could at all but how strong the feelings were, the love that had come tumbling into his heart without so much as a by-your-leave and had settled in easily and expansively.

Of course, he loved John, too, even though he hadn’t said it to him in so many words yet, far more than he’d have thought himself capable of, and that had also come as a surprise to him, in its way. At least consciously so. However, it was still different, encompassing in two similar yet completely distinctive ways and he marvelled that he, of all people, would fall in love with his offspring before he’d as much as seen their faces.

John opened his mouth but stopped when he looked at his mate.

“Piss off,” he said instead, good-naturedly.

He placed a hand on top of Sherlock’s, caressing the skin there. He leaned his head against Sherlock’s shoulder while the Alpha leaned his against John’s.

They stayed like that for a while.

“John…” Sherlock said eventually.

“Yes?”

“You will tell me?”

“Of course. But I won’t need to.”

Sherlock wasn’t so sure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More talking but again, it felt important and necessary for a lot of reasons, even if nothing happened. There will be progression of the plot, I promise, but progression of character feels important, too. I try. :)


	5. Toe-hold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock work on gaining a better footing together and giving John a toe-hold into society and an identity as his own person again. And on gaining information for Mycroft, which in turn will help keep John safe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I...I don't even know what to say except a humble but heartfelt thank you for all the stupendous, utterly heartwarming comments I got on the last chapter. I think I cried once or twice. You're the best audience I could ask for. :3

It wasn’t long after that that John started asking about the papers on Ruby. Sherlock produced them without fuss and admitted that he had only gone over them the once, while they’d been in the cab home.

As though John wasn’t aware that even from one look-over Sherlock gained more information than many people who studied something in-depth.

Depressingly, however, it was also helped by the fact that there wasn’t much in the file to examine. Granted, they hadn’t had long between her waking up and Sherlock and John arriving, but they had had time before that. They ought to have been able to come up with something more substantial than this.

What there was, was not exactly cheery reading. It wasn’t _all_ depressing, but it was certainly more ambiguous than John would’ve hoped.

He took some comfort, though, in the almost immediate mention of her somatosensory system and its responsiveness, even before she’d woken. It hadn’t purely been while in Heat, either. And that nothing they could find indicated she was in pain, though of course that was always a bit of a dicey call to make without the patient fully cognisant.

Mostly, however, it was a written account of what they’d managed to observe for themselves. John took some further comfort in the observation that the few areas that weren’t covered by that descriptor, Sherlock seemed either knowledgeable about or could research further.

He knew that it was precious little, but it was more than nothing and that was what they’d had to go on.

It warmed his heart to know that Sherlock was so willing to help, even when it came to something like this, especially when he could be out solving murders and such instead.

While Sherlock checked up on that, John focused on writing down anything and everything he could recall about the harem owners, as requested by Mycroft.

Even though the elder Holmes had quite a lot of information on them already, given the nature of his place of employment, and had acquired a little more through the contracts, as well, there was some vital information on the more secretive owners and their affiliates they didn’t have that John might be able to provide them with. Of course, he was limited by not having been regarded as anything all that important, but he was also helped by that same thing, as he’d picked up on relations and other things, without them so much as suspecting.

If they had suspected anything, he wouldn’t be sitting here today.

Some of it came easy enough to him, the memory clear and painless. Some of it, however, was far more difficult, and not purely because some of the owners he’d only met briefly several years previously. But regardless, he persevered, pushing the memories away as soon as he was done with them.

It wouldn’t do him any favours to dwell on it.

Nevertheless, memories of people he’d cared for and lost, one way or the other, did flit through his mind while he wrote, halting his pen – he could write faster on paper than on a computer and there was also the significantly lessened risk of being tracked this way – as it did so, for shorter or longer periods, depending on the memory in question.

After one such long period, a hand settled on top of his, squeezing gently once. John looked over at Sherlock, who sat beside him on the sofa with the computer in his lap. He hadn’t looked up, in fact he looked quite intent on what was on the screen, but the hand was indisputably there.

The quiet… _domesticity_ , for lack of a better word, even though it felt odd to call it that in light of what they were working with, was, while a little overwhelming, also extremely heart warming and reassuring. It brought him some reassurance, if he’d ever been in doubt, that they could work when it wasn’t adrenaline-spiked action, instincts or wonderful sex.

One could argue that they were doing something now, working towards the goals they had, and as such, to call it domesticity was perhaps something of a misnomer. On the other hand, they would hardly ever be likely to be termed a normal kind of couple so for them, this did count as domesticity.

He smiled and interlaced their fingers. Whatever it counted as, he appreciated it.

* * *

“John?” Sherlock asked a while later.

He’d gotten as far as he could right then and there with the material that he had available and there was something else that occupied his mind. Several things, as a matter of fact, but that was how it always was, after all.

“Yes?”

“How long could you bear to wait?”

John paused in what he was doing, looking up and over at his mate

“For what, exactly?” he asked, voice careful in its curiosity.

“For her to come home.”

Frowning, John laid down his pen and turned to face Sherlock more fully on the sofa. “What’s brought this on?”

“Don’t you think about it? About her?” Sherlock queried, only glancing over at the blond before returning his gaze to the computer. Rather resolutely so, it seemed.

“Of course, I do. I think about her every single day. What she felt like holding, how much I still love her. How old she’ll be now, how she’ll look. If she’s even alive.”

Sherlock’s head shot up and whipped around at that. Not that he hadn’t thought of that, too, of course he had. He always took such things into account but to hear it out of John’s mouth like that, almost…not quite nonchalant but detached in a way he wouldn’t have expected, at all…

Something of that must’ve shown in his expression because he got a grim smile in return. “I don’t want to think about that, but I need to. The stories, the real stories rather than the old PR shite Omegas were fed before harems were made illegal, about the fate of such children are enough to make your blood curdle, and few of them are as overly embroidered or fanciful as your mind tries to assume.”

“I know,” Sherlock said, his voice quiet. “Some of them end up as cases.”

John, who’d been about to make a comment about how he probably thought he knew but didn’t, clicked his mouth shut hard and grimaced instead.

“Of course,” was all he said out loud.

“I don’t think it ever bothered me before,” Sherlock confessed. “Not like this, anyway. They’ve always been purely cases. Now I think of those cases and every face morph into…” He paused to grimace. “Which is stupid, and I know it’s stupid, because I haven’t seen her, so I can only superimpose your traits onto a toddler’s face, and that’s not even mentioning how utterly useless remembering them is, in this context or others.”

It was stupid. He was helping no one by remembering them, especially not when his mind changed the faces of them like that.

He felt something soft on his cheek; John’s lips pressing against it.

“For what it’s with, it doesn’t sound stupid to me,” he said when he pulled back. “It sounds sweet, in its own strange way. Thank you.”

“For what?” Sherlock asked, his brow knitting lightly.

“For thinking about my daughter enough for that to happen.”

“Why wouldn’t I?” the brunet questioned, his frown deepening. “I meant what I said, John. I want her here, when we find her and bring her home. I want her to be part of this home, this family. To be a terror to her younger siblings. I want…” he paused for a moment. “I want her to be my daughter, too. I want to adopt her, if you’ll let me.”

He knew he’d said it before, or something to that effect, and normally he hated repeating himself. This right here, though, felt important to repeat, and in any case, if it got John to look at him like that, it was more than worth it, quite apart from the fact that it was completely true.

Something else struck him again. John always called her ‘my daughter’. There was no questioning the love he felt for her, you could hear it in his voice and see it in his face, his entire demeanour, and yet…people named their pets, their cars, things they saw in the sky, but he hadn’t named his only child.

Was it his only child? It wouldn’t be unreasonable to assume that it wasn’t, with the years he’d spent in the harem, keeper or not. Why would that be the only successful impregnation, given the ‘ease’ with which their children had been conceived? If he’d had several pregnancies and she was his only child, had he been unfortunate enough to suffer miscarriages?

Was that something that they needed to be conscious of with their own children? And in light of that, wouldn’t it make even more sense for him to have named her, the fact that she’d made it all the way into the world making her more special?

_You know, how about you just ask him instead of speculating? He’s right there, and it concerns your children, too._

“Why did you never name her?” he asked, pitching his voice low and quiet to mitigate the directness of the question.

To his surprise, John got neither angry nor hurt, nor even defensive.

“I did,” he answered, voice equally quiet. “I’ve just never said it out loud.”

“Why not?”

John snorted. “Stupid reasons, really.”

_Hardly stupid, if they matter to you, John._

“Will…would you tell me?”

He tried to pitch it in a tone of voice that was imploring without being secretly demanding, hoping to show the other that he was genuinely interested but that he shouldn’t feel under any pressure to divulge if he didn’t want to.

It was important to him because it was important to John, however sappy that might sound…and did it matter if it was sappy? There were only to people it should matter to, and they were allowed to be sappy towards each other.

It was quiet in the flat for a long time after that, but Sherlock sat and waited patiently for his mate to either tell him or change the subject. Whichever he was more comfortable with, though if he was honest, he was expecting the latter. Which would be fine, too. It was John’s decision.

Therefore, it came as a little bit of a shock when the blond took a deep breath, then another, and said, “Her name is…Tessa.”

It came out quiet and just the tiniest bit defensive, as though he expected some sort of comment or even an outright dismissal of the name.

Sherlock realised that it wasn’t anything to do with him almost immediately, and mentally scolded himself for not realising straight away, because it was bloody well obvious that it had more to do with learned caution and ingrained defensiveness than anything to do with Sherlock.

Tessa, though…it wasn’t what he’d have expected, but at the same time, it made sense as the sort of name John would pick. Short, sweet, easy to call, not too singular or posh-sounding, yet not quite run-of-the-mill, either.

“Tessa or Tess?” he asked.

“Tessa.” John made a ‘huh’ sound. “You know, I’ve never considered Tess. It’s always been Tessa, in my head, ever since I knew it was a girl.” He didn’t specify whether that was when she was born or earlier, but then again, did it matter?

“Why choose Tessa?”

“Any particular reason that name rather than a million others, you mean? No, not really…nothing interesting, anyway. No skeletons in the closet or anything. Just a name that I liked.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

“Well, yeah, okay. There was someone. I served with her, both tours.”

“You were in love with her.” He didn’t frame it as a question, because it wasn’t one.

John didn’t answer.

“It’s not a crime, John, to be in love with an Alpha, whatever your secondary gender.”

“How did – why do I even bother asking? I don’t think of it as a crime, it was just…” he trailed off.

“If she was stupid enough not to see what was right in front of her, or, more likely, idiotic enough to see it and ignore it – “

“Sherlock – “

He ignored the slight warning in the voice. He meant it, wholeheartedly. “– Then that is her immense loss and my incredible gain.”

“I’m not changing the name.”

“Of course not, nor should you. Tessa is a beautiful name, regardless of other bearers, and I can’t wait to meet your Tessa.”

“Our Tessa,” John corrected, gently. “And thank you.”

“No need to thank me.”

He got another kiss on the cheek. “Even so.”

* * *

The rest of the day was spent in the same vein. Once John had exhausted what he could remember of the harem and its owners, he put the papers aside for the moment, ready for when or if he recalled anything more. Where to put it that wouldn’t disappear into the general clutter of the living room was a bit of a conundrum but eventually, he settled on putting it underneath the skull, employing it as a slightly macabre paper weight.

He even found himself saying, “You’ll keep those safe for me, I know.”

Then, with a feeling of trepidation, he turned his attention to his financial situation. He needed to know whether he even still had a bank account and if so, whether there was any money on it.

Internally, he vowed that if there was, he would pay as much as was feasible for him back to Sherlock for the clothes.

_There are other priorities, though,_ his mind argued, _quite apart from the fact that you promised that he could provide for you for the time being. Is your pride really that much more important to you than respecting the gesture he made for you? Seems a little late in the game, considering everything that you’ve had to put up with before._

Those were different – temporary and from quite another position.

_Even so, you don’t seem to value his care as much as you do your own independence. Not that there’s anything wrong with independence but do you really need it to come at any cost? Let him provide the clothes for you and instead funnel the money there is, if there is any, towards something for the twins. Find a good cot for them, or a quality pram. Something that would still be an essential part of the life you’re trying to build together but doesn’t signal that you’d rather he back off completely from doing something for you._

That…made a whole lot of sense, and he couldn’t really argue with it. Not without proving the point about stubborn pride.

_Plus, you could find him something, too. A new scarf, perhaps._

He could definitely do that. Something in merino wool, if he could find that in that same shade of blue the original had. It looked annoyingly amazing on him and went well with the drama of the coat.

First, however, he needed to find out whether or not he had any money, or even had an account.

“Sherlock?” he asked. Then he had to ask again.

“Hm?” he eventually got as an answer.

“Can I borrow your phone? I need to check for – “

Pale eyes lifted from what they’d been engrossed in.

“You never need to ask,” Sherlock interrupted. “If you need something, just take it. This is your home as much as mine, now.”

The look in the eyes was one of challenge but with the warmth in them, too, John guessed it to be a challenge of whether or not he’d be stupid enough to argue against it, on grounds that would swiftly and thoroughly be pulled apart, but with the understanding of why he might want to argue against it and not judging him for it.

That might be a little much to infer if it was anyone else, but he was coming to learn that if you looked, properly, it was not unreasonable to expect and find several things in the expression all at once.

So, what he said out loud was a gentle, “There is something called common courtesy, love, that still applies.”

He got a slightly derisive snort for his trouble. “Why, exactly? It’s nothing but boring social convention.”

_Social conventions do exist for a reason, silly though they often are, and one of those reasons is to help the running of society run more smoothly and prevent people from murdering each other. Okay, the last bit might be slight hyperbole but the point stands._

“Perhaps you can think of it as mutual respect instead, then. I wouldn’t take something of yours without express permission – “

“Which I have just granted you.”

“– especially not when that something is as personal as a phone.”

“Apropos of phone – did you give the phone you had to Mycroft?”

_Changing the subject doesn’t mean you’ve gotten out of it or that I’m going to forget it, but it’s not important right now, it’ll keep._

“No, I didn’t. To be honest, I forgot – “

“Good,” Sherlock interrupted, yet again. “That way, it might be slightly easier to trace who gave you the phone in the first place.”

“Surely, she would’ve found ways to ensure that it wouldn’t be traceable, when she was willing to provide a phone through her regular harem Omega to give to another?”

“And there, you have already provided me with several useful pieces of information.”

John sighed. “Sherlock, while I appreciate you thinking of my safety, because I do, I really do, this isn’t that much of a priority.”

“She’s a regular ‘user’, which means she is trusted by the owners to allow her to return, but not an owner herself, or you wouldn’t have risked it. That she has given you something, through another or not, is a risk factor, if for no other reason that she is sure to have put tracers on the phone.”

“Why? I mean, we weren’t supposed to move out of the harem, how interesting could it possibly be for her to know where the phone was within the same building?”

“You assume she wouldn’t have wanted to know whether you were bought by someone else.”

_That slightly possessive streak we really need to do something about._ “Why would she? And in any case, she didn’t know she was buying it for _me_ , specifically. She doesn’t know me, and I don’t know which punter she is. I...I got someone else to sweettalk her and provide them with the phone, which they then passed onto me.”

“All the more reason that she might.”

“You can’t know that, Sherlock.”

Sherlock looked at him, without speaking, for what felt like an uncomfortably long time but probably wasn’t very long. Then he rose from his seat, movement abrupt but still graceful, and strode past John to one of the stacks of papers on the table between the two windows.

It didn’t take him very long to find the two sheets of paper he was looking for and he pulled it out with efficiency rather than a flourish.

He held it out to the Omega, as though it was the felling evidence. “This is an extensive list of people not only known to be harem owners but also regular frequenters of various establishments around the country and the continent, many of which pop up in several different harems. How many among those are listed as female Alphas?”

“Extensive doesn’t necessarily mean exhaustive – “

“How many?” Sherlock demanded.

John took it and skimmed over the papers, noting just how few occurrences there were of the Greek letter A entwined with the Venus symbol. There were certainly far more than there were of the Omega symbol entwined with either the Mars or the Venus symbol, which were only a total of four, but the bulk of the people on the list was made up of male Alphas and Betas.

This was information that he on some level already knew, given it had been his job to take care of their ‘toys’, but still, seeing it laid out like that was rather strange.

“Ehm, as far as I can see, around a dozen or so. But Sherlock, they don’t have to have been registered at the time. Not every harem does so – “

“The list isn’t comprised purely of data acquired from other harems. How many of that dozen coincide with where your harem has been in the time the other Omega, the one she thought she was giving the phone to, has been there? It cannot have been too long.”

John checked again, mentally noting the implication that apart from him, very few Omegas stayed long in the harems. He didn’t know what to do with that implication, so he focused on the number.

“Two.”

“Who?”

John pointed it out to him, finger and focus on the paper.

He knew them by name almost purely because as the keeper, he was privy to some of the records, mainly the guarded ones related to which clients had specific preferences, whether that be particular traits or even one specific Omega or Beta, so as to customize further. They hadn’t been named fully but even so, initials were not that hard to remember, especially not when it was more than two letters, and therefore not that hard to link them to the actual names, either.

While it wasn’t completely true to say that he didn’t know her at all, as he’d seen her come and go once or twice and knew that it was her from the descriptions he got from the other Omega when held together with the data on the regular clients.

Punters, Ben had used to call them, not caring when some of the others had despised his use of the term. He’d point out that for all intents and purposes, the harem was an upscale combination of brothel and slave trading house. Try before you buy but do make sure that you purchase something along the line, as we are not too fond of pure browsers, sampling the merchandise with no intention of buying.

Ben…oh, god. There was another thing that he needed to do…and that made it sound as though they were a chore, an albatross around his neck. Which they weren’t. At all.

Though his inner thoughts had accused him of just that, they hadn’t been merely a means to a convenient end for him, nor did he think himself free of responsibility now that they were all out. Quite the opposite, and he’d had more than one stab of guilt since they’d gotten out.

But the time he’d spent in hospital, he’d been in no fit state to go anywhere, unfortunately, and had to take Mycroft’s reassurance that they were indeed okay, and it wasn’t as though he’d been living at Baker Street for long or had exactly been idle in the time that he had.

That said, the guilt still wiggled, such as now when he thought of them. They weren’t a chore, but they were one more thing that he couldn’t do right, like the money situation and own identity and –

_And shut up! Good grief, one would think you had some sort of masochistic streak, dwelling on those things again and again without resolving them!_

His inner voice sounded, strangely enough given the circumstances, rather like Sherlock. He blinked and looked up at the other, to make sure that the words in his head hadn’t in fact come from the Alpha’s mouth.

It didn’t seem to, as Sherlock spoke the moment they made eye contact.

“You’re scared.” It wasn’t a question, but it was spoken with concern.

John didn’t even consider outright denial. What would be the point?

“I am,” he admitted. “Mostly worried but yes, also scared. There are so many things that are up in the air, so many variables and unknowns that is impossible to calculate and counter yet can turn out to have devastating effects on not just me but the people I care about. I know that’s a factor in all life, but regardless, this – “

“Just because there are similarities doesn’t mean that it’s on anything like the same scale. Normal people don’t have the responsibility, real or perceived, for an entire group of vulnerable, newly liberated individuals, nor a twin pregnancy with the difficulties of a deteriorating scent bond, nor trying to re-establish themselves completely from scratch in a society that is indifferent at best and actively hostile at worst towards members of a harem, and that is only the start of it.”

The bluntness and thoroughness of the answer was somehow strangely comforting and uplifting. It didn’t completely absolve the fear and the worries, of course it didn’t, but it did ease the knot in his stomach somewhat.

It was loosened yet simultaneously tightened by the next words. “It would be the height of foolishness to put yourself down merely because the issues you face might superficially resemble the problems of fusspots.”

“Yeah, ta for that.” The slight tightness in the voice was one that he couldn’t quite quash, however.

“I understand why you’re scared, John. I do. I am not demeaning the feeling, nor why you might wish to diminish and discard your experience to better cope with the unmitigated fear of not having a proper identity. You are not who you were, neither before or during the harem, but neither are you someone else, not entirely.”

He took a brief breath before ploughing on. ”The experience has altered you sufficiently that you cannot step back into your old life, the known world you chose to turn your back on – “ and John couldn’t help the tiny wince at that, even though he knew that there was no judgement there and no reason to react to what he’d done in vastly different circumstances with very limited options, especially as it couldn’t change them – “for reasons that I don’t know but don’t doubt their legitimacy whatsoever. You have lived isolated from the world, mostly, only seen the dregs of society, and not the interesting dregs, and now you have returned, without even the tiniest of tethers to what you had, deliberately so.

“You make it sound as though I’m a character in a fairy tale, returning across the threshold after his adventure.”

Despite his words, it helped knowing that Sherlock seemed to genuinely understand how he felt and wasn’t judging him, for feeling that in particular or for feeling in general, either. John wasn’t normally the emotional rollercoaster Omegas tended to be stereotyped as but though they hadn’t known each other that long, relatively speaking, he was getting to be aware that for Sherlock to be this open and emotional, that was something he, John, exclusively got to experience.

He didn’t know whether that ought to make him feel special, because what it did was make him feel empathy and sympathy for Sherlock for what had led him to be that outwardly distant and closed-off to others, since it seemed evident, even to him, that it was a learned attribute rather than an inherent one.

“Fairy tales are purely stories meant to teach life lessons to the uneducated.” Sherlock moved closer to him. “I don’t blame you because I know that was what you had to do in order to survive, and even if it wasn’t, I still wouldn’t. Blame and judgement are utterly useless endeavours, at the best of times.”

“You judge things boring on a regular basis, or so I’m told,” John teased, feeling a little lightened and needing a bit of levity. “Cases in particular.”

“That’s an entirely different matter,” Sherlock declared, “as that is pure objective fact. As is you having free rein to use whichever object you need for as long as you need.” As he spoke, he pulled his phone from his pocket and held it out to the Omega, his eyebrow raised.

John took it with a small smile, one of gratefulness and affection, and said, with a deliberately overly cheery tone, “Let’s see if it still applies when your knot is throbbing in pain from overuse, shall we?”

He watched Sherlock’s pupils grow significantly at the unexpected comment and could smell the change in his scent as well, at least before he reined it back in, with a will that was wobbly and took more moments than he likely would have anticipated or liked but was unquestionably strong normally. It was merely somewhat…hampered at that moment.

He couldn’t quite help it; there was some satisfaction in seeing such an indisputable, immediate and, not least, relatively strong a reaction from a comment like that.

It was likely wrong, to get satisfaction from a reaction that was more than likely instinctual. On the other hand, they were bonded, and if he couldn’t flirt and make sexual allusions with his bond mate, then who could he? Especially seeing as they were evidently well-received.

One might argue this isn’t the time or the place for such things.

_One might argue that for the honeymoon phase, as it were, you are both wearing quite a lot of clothing and have had entirely too little physical contact outside of what might be expected of a teen romance novel._

Yes, but there were more important issues to deal with. A dance on the sheets were hardly –

They were important to deal with before you left the hospital, that didn’t stop you from reconnecting with him. Quite passionately so.

He couldn’t argue much with that point, could he?

Almost without his conscious decision, he felt his eyes roam over that body, the hands-on knowledge of what exactly was under those tight clothes only serving to enhance the experience.

Sherlock seemed to appreciate the gesture; his scent grew again, and his tongue came out to lick his lips, a gesture which the Omega couldn’t help but follow with his eyes. He very firmly kept his hands on the phone.

“Not now,” the Alpha said, his voice low…cracking ever so slightly? No, surely not?

“Later,” John promised, his own voice more than a smidgeon deeper.

He took a deep breath and closed his eyes, to push lewd thoughts aside, school himself and at the same time, prepare himself for checking his account for its balance.

A hand landed on his shoulder as Sherlock moved the last bit between them. The kiss he landed on the blond’s forehead was hardly sexually charged, as in it was mostly not. Mostly.

“Later,” John repeated. How much later, that was a different matter altogether.

It took a while, what with gaining access to his account in the first place, which took quite a few video phone calls to various people, who then had to be persuaded that he was indeed who he claimed he was. It helped that he could produce some still valid ID, hidden away on his person so as not to be discovered and taken by any busybody at the harem, and they somehow managed it after some trial and error and one embarrassing point where Sherlock was forced to step in and vouch for his identity, they managed to get what he needed to check.

He tried not to let the vouching incident get to him, aware that Sherlock hadn’t wanted to do so and had been up until then purely a silent, supportive presence beside him, apart from the click of tapping computer keys. The issue was that the monkey at the front desk had been stickler-insistent he couldn’t possibly be the Doctor John H. Watson the account belonged to.

The ‘reasoning’, such as it was, behind the absurd dismissal went thusly; though he did resemble the picture on the ID, the clerk claimed that it was a passing resemblance at best, with the slightly sneering implication that John’s features were unremarkable enough to be mistaken for a number of other people, and was therefore not valid as a means of identification, and certainly not on its own.

Furthermore, said ID clearly stated that he was an unbonded Omega and the bond bite was halfway visible, even over the collar of his shirt and jumper, and there was no evidence that John Watson had been bonded.

Protesting that surely the bite mark itself counted as said evidence, and quite a solid one at that, he was dispassionately informed that unless he had written documentation of said bonding to go with it, it was inadmissible as evidence.

Sherlock had stepped in, then, not so much to take over and render John the incapable of the pairing, but to back him up with showing his own bite marks off, saying curtly that he’d be happy to show them how they fitted with John’s dental records. Then he lectured him on just how a face might change in the time that had passed between the ID photo being taken and now, rounding off with a brief aside on how the clerk wasn’t in any position to demand or question such things, seeing as how he’d taken backhanders to pass people through various bureaucratic roadblocks that they weren’t supposed to be able to cross.

The clerk had whitened at that but thankfully hadn’t been stupid enough to try and deny it or demand to see evidence. Given that he was sitting at his desk, in an open office landscape, that would’ve been extraordinarily stupid but then again, people weren’t always very bright, were they?

With a speed that clearly indicated he wanted them gone as soon as he could get away with and didn’t want the risk of them returning, he managed to verify John through his ID and a few other pieces of personal information that were apparently essential to do so.

When he asked for an email address, however, John hesitated. The only one he could remember, for a given value of remember, was the one he’d sent the email to Sherlock through, to ask for his help in getting them out of the harem. That had been on the phone that he’d gotten through the aforementioned Alpha, the information put in there therefore compromised, including the email address itself.

Sherlock nudged him with his elbow at that, gently and without saying anything. John looked over at the computer screen where an email account was opened. Leaning closer, he could see the email address and was a little surprised and very touched to see that it wasn’t Sherlock’s name there or something completely bland and bog standard. It was unquestionably his.

He quickly turned and rattled off the address, adding some line about how he was terrible at remembering his own, it was like with phone numbers, wasn’t it?

The clerk readily agreed, the process smoothed by people’s tendency to easily believe in slightly ditzy Omega behaviour, conditioned to through years of indoctrination and media portrayals.

He promised to send the information to John as quickly as possible, congratulated him on finding such a handsome, caring Alpha and ended the call.

“He should be grateful I didn’t specify just who he’d been taking backhanders from,” Sherlock commented calmly.

“It doesn’t really matter,” John said. “His colleagues couldn’t hear, anyway. He had a headset on, only he could hear us. But it did the trick, so thank you.”

“It was merely a question of expediency, so you didn’t have to deal with the ogre for longer than necessary, not that I don’t believe you capable – “

John kissed him on the cheek. “I know. I’m an idiot for getting worked up about it, but I do know when I stop to actually think.”

Sherlock returned the kiss.

“His colleagues could hear, though, or at least his neighbour could. There was a slight sound that would indicate the volume is wrong. In any case, you could see her pause on the way past him, her head tilted. She’ll have plenty to tell her friends over tomorrow’s lunch.”

The doctor snorted, not exactly amused. “Well, glad to be of entertainment value, at least.”

“It’ll keep at gossip, John. You’re not the important part in that story, you’re just a means to an end to get to a colleague that isn’t liked.”

“…Remind me never to get an office job.”

He winced slightly when he realised what he’d said but Sherlock hummed in acknowledgement.

“You’ll be working with me, when you can, so don’t worry,” he said. “If you want to, of course.”

“Of course, I want to. In fact, I’d love to, don’t be an arse. Well, more than normal, anyway.”

Sherlock merely grinned. “You like my arse,” he pointed out, with a raised eyebrow.

“That I do. Very much so,” John conceded with a matching grin.

“Thank you,” came a little while after, the baritone voice quiet.

The Omega blinked puzzled. “What for? Oh. You don’t need to thank me for that.” He paused, then added, “kettle.”

“Kettle?” It was Sherlock’s turn to look a little confused.

“Never mind. But while we’re at thank yous, thank you for the quick save on the email. Why didn’t you just provide me with yours, though? It’d have readily been accepted as viable, seeing as you’re my Alpha.”

“Implying that I have legal custody over you or some similar nonsense?” the Alpha shot back. Then his face softened as did his voice. “I don’t, John. You know that.”

“I do, and that wasn’t what I was saying. I was just pointing out the expediency of doing it the other way.”

“No need to start off with you as a seeming dependent, especially not to an incompetent little toad like that, when that’s the last thing you are, except in a purely financial and temporary fashion, which counts for absolutely nothing.”

There was a pause, then, so quiet it was almost a whisper but fervent and earnest nevertheless, “I would think the same of and…and feel the same about you whatever your secondary gender, John.”

The Omega’s heart swelled with warmth and love at that.

Thank you,” he said, equally quiet, equally earnest. “That…thank you so much.”

He leaned over for a kiss on the lips, which Sherlock was happy to give. Quite unintentionally, it became long and lingering even if it remained entirely chaste and sweet.

When they parted, John said. “I know this might be a bit early and I don’t mean to scare you or put pressure on you or anything – “

“Which you building it up like that certainly doesn’t achieve.”

“– but I mean it when I say it,” John continued, ignoring the comment.

He kissed the cupid bow lips again, briefly and sweetly.

“I love you.”

The words, though important, he’d never deny that because he knew they were and felt that they were, also felt easy and natural to say. Yes, they hadn’t known each other that long, technically. Yes, they shouldn’t be bonded already, probably, and yes, there were a lot of things unknown and unsaid, things to negotiate and reconsider.

Nor was the phrase something to be bandied about as though you were a teenager with their first crush, at least not to John, sappy as though that probably was.

This was hardly a case of that, though. However long, or short, they’d known each other, there was no real denying that they fitted together as though they’d known each other for years. It wasn’t a case of love at first sight, not really, but neither was it a case of the scent bond choosing for them.

Sherlock was right; this wasn’t about genders, primary or secondary. This was about two people, two odd, out-of-step, societally exiled people with thorny, winding, bloody paths making up their lives, who’d found the person that could not just tolerate them but like them, love them, _for_ who they were rather than in spite of it.

Seen in that light, it wasn’t hyperbole to use the words, however early in the relationship it was. It was right and it was entirely true. He hoped it would never not be.

A crystal clear image of Sherlock as a much older man flashed, unbidden and entirely unexpected, through his mind at that; his hair gone silver except for a few curls of dark brown stubbornly hanging on, his face softened with annoyingly attractive wrinkles, especially around his eyes, his fingers almost spindly and his frame thin but wiry, in that special way some people got.

Just the thought that he’d get to see that, watch the Alpha age, and grow old with him as a bonded pair, almost filled his heart to bursting.

The version of his Alpha in front of him right now was the more important issue, though, as the words seemed to have short-circuited something in that massive brain; he stared at John and kept blinking as though that would somehow reboot the system.

“Sherlock?” he asked, worried that it had been the wrong thing to say at the wrong time. Not that he doubted Sherlock’s own feelings, of course he didn’t, it was –

He didn’t get to finish the thought before he was bowled over, lips attaching to his own and hands grabbing hold of his shoulders as he was pushed and twisted to land on his back on the sofa. It was a wonder that he didn’t bang his head against the arm of it.

“John,” Sherlock whispered when they parted. “John. John. John.” He sounded as though he was reciting a reverential prayer.

“Yes, love?” John said. He didn’t expect the words to be reciprocated. Later, certainly, but not right now, and that was just fine. He was saying it in all but words, in any case, and was evidently somewhat overwhelmed, in a positive sense, by the admission.

A shudder ran through Sherlock at that and he pushed his hands underneath the newly bought jumper and shirt, running over skin.

The ‘later’ had suddenly arrived

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a day late compared to my normal upload date, I know. I was out celebrating that night, though, so...at least you don't have to wait another week. :)  
> I know this feels like a jumble of several different, smaller points but it is a 7k chapter and I hope it also feels as though we're progressing, both in story and in character. I don't know, this felt nice to write, somehow.  
> I realised I had never given John's little girl a name, which I felt horrible about, so I gave her one that's close to my heart. :)


	6. Movements

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Baker Street couple discover some odd movements on John's bank account, which might reveal something important, and Mycroft gets a delivery that's both helpful and very unwelcome.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had no idea how to title this chapter.  
> Thank you again, everybody. You really are incredible and I love your kind feedback.

Mycroft glanced up briefly as his office door opened without prior indicator such as a knock or a polite throat clearing. He looked back down at the paperwork he was pouring over almost immediately, recognising the shape of Anthea.

He expected her to come in with some additional papers of greater importance and then leave, as was her norm. So, when she instead remained standing beside his desk, he paused and looked up again.

“Yes?”

She didn’t say anything but merely held out a single sheet of paper to him.

“Couldn’t it keep until I reached it later, my dear?” he asked. Normally, if there was something that required more urgent attention, it would simply be placed on top of the others so that he’d reach it sooner.

She shook her head. Puzzled despite himself, he reached out to take it from her.

At first glance, it was fairly nondescript to look at, just another sheet of laser-printed paper, with some handwritten scrawls at the bottom and in the margins. At least, that was the case until he examined it in more detail.

The printed text seemed to be a page of details on some baby, which was being made ready for adoption after spending the first few weeks of its life in a children’s home. The date on the paper indicated that this wasn’t a recent event and some rather crucial details were missing, such as the exact date of birth, any name of a parent or whether it had been brought to the home or born there.

Furthermore, it was written in French.

That, in combination with the date and the missing details, sent bells tingling in his mind. Or perhaps ‘clanging’ was the better term.

Uncomfortable and alarming as that was, what sent a strong, involuntary shiver down his spine was the handwritten part of the paper. The ones in the margins were related to the details on the child, comments and speculations that were rather uncomfortably in-depth. They were also written in French.

The portion of handwritten text on the bottom of the paper, itself another margin, really, the paper that filled with info, was in the same hand, even if it was somewhat more tidily penned. This time, however, the text was in English and was a later addition, given the freshness of the ink and the change in colour between the two.

Moreover, he realised as he focused on it, it had been written addressed to someone specific, namely him.

‘Thought you might need some additional help in your little hunt, Mycroft. Especially in light of very recent events. Would be such a shame if you turned up a little too late, wouldn’t it?

P.S. She really is a darling child. So sunny and open. Such a shame.’

It wasn’t signed but then, it hardly needed to be, did it?

He looked back up from the paper sharply. “Where did it come from?” he asked.

She didn’t know. Nobody did.

Sherlock needed to know.

* * *

 

It wasn’t until the next day that the clerk actually did send the information so he could gain access to his account, of course. Whether it was due to normal procedures within the bank or the clerk being a stuck-up, vindictive little sod, merely because he could, wasn’t clear, but the effect was the same.

Interestingly, it was Sherlock more than John himself who was worked up about it. Not because John didn’t care – to be honest, he’d rather have the tension released, one way or the other – but there were other things to occupy his time and mind with.

For one, there was the matter of how to get rid of the phone without raising suspicions. Of course, it could be argued that that ship had already said, as, even though he hadn’t taken it with him since – Sherlock had been with him and who else did he know to call other than him, in any case? - he’d brought it into the flat with the tracers undoubtedly still active. They would have been able to gather a lot of information from that move alone, especially since he’d stayed there for some time, and this wasn’t a hospital building.

But they might not have thought to trace it yet. Or if they had, they wouldn’t necessarily have clocked the significance of who it belonged to. Would they? No, he still believed that the Alpha that had procured the phone didn’t know him and certainly didn’t know he was the one who’d gotten it.

It brought him some measure of comfort to know that all the Omegas and Betas were out of the harem now, including the one who’d helped him, and so they were not liable to pay the price for his actions. Not anymore than any of the others, at least.

No. They were safe and sound. Mycroft had kept his promise. He knew he had.

Even so, he couldn’t help making a mental note to somehow get to visit them soon. Not that he thought he’d be prevented, either by his Alpha or his brother, but there seemed to be so many things that needed sorting, and with the threat that the owners still posed…with the threat _he_ posed to them through his bond with Sherlock, his role in getting them out and whatever links the owners might make to that, it was hardly the wisest moment to visit.

Still, waiting until it was all over, whether it went through the courts or through some less official, dubiously-legal ways, was going to be agonising. If that was what it took, though, that was what he needed to do. Regardless of what Sherlock thought, or anyone else, he still had a duty of care to them.

Which then tied back to the phone. That he’d failed to think of getting rid of the phone earlier, that he’d brought it here might actually turn to be a boon within a bane. If one of the owners made the connection, or the Alpha made mention of the phone, possibly in some sort of effort to get the desired Omega back, and subsequently used that to try and trace them, then the fact that John had it would at least lead them in the wrong direction.

However, that wasn’t to say that he was going to sit by and do nothing. There wasn’t only himself to think of here in the flat, either, and though he’d brought danger to his new family already by not thinking of the phone immediately, he wasn’t going to ignore it, either.

Sherlock suggested that the best option was to leave it be, in the sense that whether the owners knew or not, having the trace be anywhere else would put someone else in potential danger, which wouldn’t do.

He’d made some comment about John’s horribly noble doctor soul at that and John had been about to cuff him for it, until he saw the half smile and the corners of eyes creasing. Then he downgraded it to a light swat.

Apart from the phone and all that entailed, not to mention the bank, there were other practicalities to deal with. He needed to set up a set of regular appointments with the clinic they’d picked, for one, and for another, there was a more planned schedule for the remainder of his pregnancy.

That didn’t mean he couldn’t do anything at all, of course, or that he had to follow a strict schedule from now on. He was going to show earlier, obviously – to be honest, he already was showing, wasn’t he? – and be more burdened by having two children growing in his womb rather than one, but ordinarily, he’d be able to retain a relatively normal life.

Except, not only was his not a normal life now, it hadn’t been for the length of time they had been developing inside of him, and neither did it look remotely like the future would hold much resembling that.

To be honest, he wasn’t sure he’d be able to function inside what was considered a ‘normal’ life. No, that was a lie. He was almost dead-certain that he wouldn’t; that was why, or at least a part of the reason why, he had struggled to acclimatise to normal society after he’d been discharged from the army after his…injury.

The other aspects had been greater factors, though, but there was a reason that, despite being an Omega, he’d gone to join the military in the first place and why he’d managed to rise to the rank of Captain in an establishment that talked far more of equality and opportunities for all than they ever practiced it.

He’d known more than one Omega who’d hidden their secondary, and sometimes even their primary, gender from the top brass and their immediate colleagues, too, to be allowed to advance or in some cases, merely join the military.

The monstrous regiment, indeed. They didn’t even know the half of it.

But though he knew perfectly well he’d have difficulty, to say the least, practising a completely normal, routine life, whatever that said about him as a person, he also knew that for the sake of their unborn children, he would have to find some way to do so, to the maximum extent that he could.

It wasn’t even just that he needed to think of their development and the normal pitfalls in pregnancy. The first few months of their existence had been a toll, to put it mildly, on both him and them, and those were quite critical months. That they seemed fine was nothing short of a miracle, and even then, it was one with the caveat of what couldn’t be seen through an ultrasound, which was more than he cared to contemplate.

And yet, he had to. For their sake, he had to be prepared.

John hadn’t realised he’d sunken into deep thought and had begun to rub at the small curve that was his belly over his shirt while he thought. Not until his hand was stopped by a larger hand suddenly being in the way.

He looked up from his position on one of the chairs for what ought to have been a dining table but was in reality mostly another landscape of papers, books and miscellaneous detritus, though thankfully nothing edible, or what once had been edible, among it.

Sherlock was looking down at him from where he’d positioned himself between the doctor’s legs, bent slightly so he could more easily reach the stomach.

“What?” he asked.

“Nothing.” He got a raised eyebrow for that. “Fine. I merely wondered whether they were moving.”

“Uh-huh. Pull the other one, it’s got bells on.” He decided not to push him further on the real reason, though. “They won’t move yet, it’s far too early.”

“There’s been reported cases of second pregnancies where the mother has been able to feel the quickening as early as 13 weeks.”

John moved to sit more upright in the chair, the Alpha’s broad hand following the movement to keep touching the Omega’s belly. “And we’re not even at that point quite yet, are we? The normal span is between 16 and 25 weeks, and even if there will be movement at 16 weeks or before, it’ll not be enough for you to be able to feel them.”

Sherlock looked mildly annoyed, though whether it was for being called out or not being able to feel them yet, John wasn’t sure.

Moving carefully so as not to dislodge the hand, he got to his feet. “I promise I’ll tell you the moment I can feel them, okay? You’re not the only one who’s excited about all of this.”

He smiled gently but got a frown in return.

“What?”

“You’re not excited.”

John blinked, thrown. “The hell? Of course, I’m excited, you idiot! Why wouldn’t I be excited?”

“Because your excitement is tempered, or perhaps outright extinguished, by the amount of worries and fears associated with it.”

“That I’m worried doesn’t mean that I’m not excited, too. When it comes to being pregnant, those two almost always go hand in hand.”

He knew he sounded defensive and that he was rattling off facts about normal pregnancies to try and deflect from the fear Sherlock was right that he was experiencing. It was nothing egregious yet, but it was there, and he couldn’t stop it, not that nor the defensive tone.

Sherlock looked at him, eyes almost boring into him as he weighed the different indicators in a person that he made use of.

“We could get a nanny,” he said eventually.

“You what? No! Why?”

“If you’re worried about them hampering your life – “

“That’s not it at all! Why would you even think that? Yeah, okay, I’m worried about their safety, but that doesn’t mean I don’t want them with me as much as possible. I don’t want anyone else to…to take…”

He felt his throat constricting. Dammit, not now. This wasn’t helpful. He needed to make his point, not get choked up with memories.

He was pulled into an embrace at that, which he accepted. The comfort of familiar arms around him and that warm, musky scent so close eased the tension and his throat loosened back up.

“I’m sorry,” he heard from above him, quiet but sincere. “I phrased that extremely poorly. I only meant that if you’re worried that they might be put in danger by the life you…we’ll lead, that a nanny could assist you.”

He nudged John’s chin up with two fingers, so their gazes met. “I would never take you away from your children. I promise, and I apologise for making you think that.”

John sighed heavily. God, they had a lot to work out yet, didn’t they? In all sorts of areas. His only real consolation was that they were working it out, talking about it and being willing to listen to each other. That said, that was quite a major consolation, really, one he was increasingly grateful for.

“I know,” he said, “and I’m sorry for getting defensive over it. To be honest, I’m mostly worried that what we’ll be putting them through for the foreseeable future or what I’ve already put them through.”

“Hardly within your control.”

The Omega huffed a minute laugh that lacked any amusement. “Don’t I know it. Some it was, though, and we won’t know for certain how it’s affected them. Yes, we’ve had tests done and it doesn’t seem as though there’s been any damage done but that’s at present, with many caveats and possible risks further on, and I know you’re going to say that I shouldn’t worry, that it’ll do no good to worry – “

“It will.”

That brought John up short. “What?” he asked, confused.

“It will and it won’t. Worrying in excess isn’t helpful but worrying that will lead to sensible planning is hardly a bad thing.”

“And what makes you think I won’t do the former instead of the latter?”

“You’re my John. You have far more sense than almost anybody else I know.”

That – and it didn’t escape him either that though the slight possessiveness showed its face yet again, it was rooted in him as a person rather than him as a gender – not only lifted a stone from John’s strangely heavy heart but made him smile.

“Only almost?” he asked, relief nearly overtaking the teasing in his voice.

“Well, there’s Mrs. Hudson.”

John conceded the point. Nobody topped Mrs. Hudson, he knew that already.

“We’ll work it out, I know,” he said, trying for a smile of reassuring confidence. He wasn’t entirely sure he was successful. “I just…sometimes it gets a bit much.”

Sherlock merely hummed, whether in agreement or just because he thought there wasn’t more to say, it wasn’t entirely clear. Whichever the case, John wasn’t annoyed by it.

A noise sounded in the room. It was a noise made up of two distinct yet similar sounds that occurred almost but not quite simultaneously, which made it mildly discordant and therefore unpleasant.

One came from the laptop while the other came from Sherlock’s phone.

“Finally!” The Alpha looked slightly triumphant at that, which was ridiculous but also more than a little endearing, if it was what John suspected it was; it wasn’t his money and yet, it mattered to him.

_Well, of course it does, you blockhead._

Sherlock made it to the laptop before John did. The light from the computer illuminated his face and reflected in his eyes as he fiddled around and then opened John’s email.

The Omega paused. There was something in Sherlock casually checking his email for him, something boundary-pushing if not outright boundary-ignoring that was sending slivers of wrongness down his spine. An email was private. It wasn’t something other people should just have immediate and unquestioned access to, whatever their connection to the owner of said email.

At the same time, it didn’t feel quite as wrong as it ought to. It ought to feel violating. But it didn’t. Wrong, yes, but not that strongly so, which probably ought to be worrying in itself.

_Then again, you don’t have any qualms about him seeing your bank account, which quite frankly should be more private and off-limits than an email address, which at least can be easily changed or deleted._

He…didn’t. Now that he thought about it, yes, that should feel more wrong, but it didn’t – and he hadn’t even thought about it.

Something else occurred to him as he watched the Alpha. Though his sense of boundaries evidently needed some dusting off, if not a complete build, John knew deep in himself that if he asked, Sherlock wouldn’t…or rather, he would try his very best _not_ to blow past that boundary, at least when it came to his Omega.

Was that comforting? Worrying? Both? In equal measures?

“There!” Sherlock said with emphasis, diverting his attention. “It’s loading but we’re in.”

_We. Not I or you. We. Well, that’s certainly also a factor in all of that._

John bent over Sherlock, who’d folded himself into his chair in what frankly had to be an uncomfortable position but seemed perfectly natural when he did it, to look over his shoulder.

The trepidation had migrated back to the pit of his stomach at what it would say but he chose to not think about it further.

When the page finished loading, John couldn’t help staring, his eyes gone wide as they took in not just the current balance but the overview of the credit and debit as well.

It wasn’t that there wasn’t any money there or even only a little, small interest on his sorry remaining cash managing to eek a little more money out over the years. If it had been that, he would’ve understood. That wasn’t to say he would be okay with it, but it would’ve made sense, at least, and he was mentally prepared for it.

This, however, was something else.

Money had gone in. A substantial amount of money, relatively speaking, was his balance. Not a fortune, not by a long chalk, but when you were expecting very low funds, to say the least, it was a very significant increase and it was a shock.

It that had been the end of it, though, that would’ve been one thing. Unexpected, yes, a little weird and rather worrying, too, he wasn’t going to deny or downplay that, but when you looked at the movements, there had been regular, if not frequent, payments from one source, one whose identity was not at all evident.

Of course, it was easy enough to guess at who the payments came from, but the important point in that case, well the _other important_ point, was that there was somebody at the other end. Someone who might not have thought to cover their tracks in this instance, as the likelihood of John checking up on who paid him, should he ever leave the harem. Or at least, not cover them as well, leaving a frail but concrete thread back to whoever of them acted as bursar, which could then be used either as evidence or some sort of leverage.

It was a tangible lead that they could most definitely do with. Yes, there were the contracts, too, but to have evidence of both John’s employment through said contract and the money paid to him, on an every-other-month basis since he’d started work there what felt like a lifetime ago, that could be linked to the contract, that would carry a whole other kind of weight.

To claim that it was nothing to do with them would be much harder to explain when there was a paper trail, especially one of regular payments. Even without the contract, there would be questions to answer for just what John was being paid to do.

After all, it wasn’t necessarily the most lurid or horrible evidence that was needed to bring something down. Sometimes it was the much more mundane but apparently more damning evidence such as that which did the trick. That was more often the case than it wasn’t, he suspected.

This evidence on its own was surprising, but it wasn’t entirely unexpected, either. What fit that bill was the last deposit that had been made.

Not only was the amount significantly larger than any of the previous deposits, it wasn’t within the established routine that would’ve seen him paid at the end of the month every other month, which would’ve meant that he should’ve gotten a payment this week – given the circumstances, he wasn’t surprised that he hadn’t, even if it reminded him that the harem owners knew. Furthermore, the bank account from which it had come was utterly different.

Pale eyes turned to him, and there was something in them that he couldn’t decipher. It wasn’t bad, exactly, but it was a little…puzzling. Then they turned away again.

“Who would send you money?” Sherlock asked, mumbling ever so slightly. “It wouldn’t be your sister, as she wouldn’t have the means, even if you were on speaking terms, your parents are no longer alive, and there are no relatives still living or recently deceased that you’ve been close enough to that they’d leave you that kind of money, either as a present, monetary aid or inheritance.”

Having your history laid out like that was still not exactly pleasant. It did help, however, in a somewhat strange way, knowing that there was no malice behind the baring of such things, no hidden agenda for why he did it. It was just Sherlock being Sherlock, and it was a mild version of that, to boot.

“I don’t know,” he said, answering the question that hadn’t quite been addressed to him. “I certainly didn’t win the pools or something. If it’s a scam, which is at least a possibility, why pick my account? Why go for that amount? It’s too large to be a viable test amount but too small to have any kind of real value if whoever’s responsible is going for it, either as a scam or a laundering scheme. But that leaves very little else that is feasible.”

“Did any user…” Sherlock paused for just a fraction, but the Omega noticed, anyway, wondering at it, “I haven’t come across any user giving money directly to the harem members. Do you know if such practices existed?”

“Directly? No, no actual cash, to my knowledge. That might give them ideas, you see, that they were worth something.” John’s smile at that was wryly grim. “Not to mention possibly give them the notion that they could use it to get out. No, what people were given there were presents, if you can call them that, usually ones that’d benefit the giver more than the recipient.”

“Of course. Less immediately traceable, too, if they had the minds to think that far or, far more plausible, someone else thought for them. But you’re right, and that does leave us with very few immediately obvious paths to explore.”

_Which isn’t to say there’s no paths at all, and you’re always up for a challenge, I can see the light in your eyes._

When he took the time to look, though – and to be honest, it was getting progressively easier for the doctor to read him, especially in situations such as this – not to mention scent, John could also see that the innate excitement of a promising puzzle to unravel was not inconsiderably tempered with concern and the quiet fire of protectiveness.

With that knowledge, he couldn’t be angry at his bond mate for wanting to tug at this new piece until it unspooled. It wasn’t purely for the thrill of the chase, as it were, it was to guarantee the safety of his family.

Which wasn’t just immensely heart-warming, it held true to what the Alpha had promised him the day they’d come home to 221B, even if it wasn’t directly tied to the puzzle of where his daughter was.

As that thought crossed his mind, another followed in its wake, like a pike swimming against a leg in an unclear pond. It was just as unexpected and unpleasant, too.

Maybe it was connected, more than tangentially, in the sense that both tied into the harem and to John’s time there. Maybe there had been a development wherever she was, which would’ve –

No! No, that was nothing but momentary panic, creating a link between two almost entirely separate things that in reality was non-existent, spun out of the fears and grief that entwined the thought of his daughter so thoroughly they were no longer entirely separable.

He breathed through his nose, his eyes closed as he sought to grab onto whatever could help calm his beating heart. Apart from the obvious point of his partner being physically right in front of him, there was the scent coming from him, too, that warm, strong, musky smell of Alpha overlaid with the notes that marked it out as Sherlock’s, unique and entirely enticing, but also, more importantly in the circumstances, comforting on a bone level.

There was also the scent bond and the sense of home that the flat had seemed to emanate for him from the time he’d first set foot here.

Together, they became a guiding light, a mooring point for him to tie himself to and return.

When he resurfaced, he noticed he’d grabbed hold of shoulders that ought to be bony but wasn’t entirely, his fingers digging in. Furthermore, he had pale eyes staring at him in an upside-down face.

“I’m okay,” he reassured.

Then he paused, mentally called himself an idiot, and continued somewhat more truthfully. “Just…moment of panic that there might be a connection between this and Tessa. A more substantial one, I mean, than the mere fact that they’re both related to the harem and me. Which is ludicrous, I know. Even if she’d been…sold or something,” here he had to take a deep breath through his nose again, “there would be no reason for money to enter my account. I won’t be on any legal documents there are regarding her, if there even are any, so whatever this has to do with, it isn’t her.”

Saying it out loud strangely helped, even if just a little.

What didn’t help was Sherlock’s expression at that, just about readable even upside down.

“What, you think there might be a connection?” he asked, his voice a teeny bit strangled.

Sherlock turned his head back the right way then in a move that shouldn’t be as graceful as it was, turned himself around in the chair to face the blond. The computer was still in his hands, somehow steady throughout the movement.

“How old would she be by now? Five?” he asked.

John shook his head. “She’ll be turning four this coming May.”

The Alpha took his hand, gently. “She’ll be home with us for that birthday.”

John was neither fooled nor deterred. “Answer the question.”

“No, I don’t think there’s a direct connection.”

“What else, then? And don’t tell me it’s just what I mentioned. It’s more than that.”

“It’s just a theory.” It sounded oddly hesitant, as though he would rather not say until he was certain. “A very loose one.”

“A theory, tight or loose, or even a fully formed thought about it is better than nothing or unsubstantiated inklings, which is all I have. Please, Sherlock. Tell me.”

Sherlock considered him, then nodded. “They are tangentially related, through you and the harem, but the linking factor doesn’t solely consist of you.”

“What else, then?”

“Who, not what, John.”

It took surprisingly little time for dots to connect in the blond’s mind but said mind boggled a little when it did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Turns out I'd cut it wrong on the last chapter (I've written somewhat more than what I've had posted and so I forgot where I meant to cut it). I'm sorry to anyone who might've expected something more juicy. I can write the scene if you all really want it, though.  
> For the same reason it might seem an odd cut here but otherwise it'd be a long and somewhat rambling chapter. I do at least feel like we're progressing, which is something :) I might be wrong but lemme have my illusion.


	7. New leads, new worries

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John discuss how to deal with Moriarty when Mycroft calls with the information on the paper

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for not finding the last chapter boring. And thanks for sticking with me and the story. It really means a lot

No, that didn’t make sense. None at all. Even if he accepted the premise that he had an interest in John that went beyond merely screwing with people because he could, that did not translate to having any interest in his offspring. What he’d said could, again, be purely to fuck with him.

“But…it’s been years since they…they took her, and he wasn’t there at the time. I would know if he were. It doesn’t make any sense why there would be anything linking her…”

“That it why it is only a loose theory. I can answer some of those questions now, certainly, likely even truthfully and accurately – “that admission alone was quite something for Sherlock, wasn’t it? The words ‘unless we expect to say something that will amaze the whole room’ floated across his mind as a rather accurate descriptor, even if he had no idea where it came from apart from being a quote – “but there are too many unknown factors to factor in that to give an unequivocal answer would be foolish and, more importantly, possibly influence in the wrong direction. But what I know so far points in the direction of Moriarty, yes.”

“Why would he be interested in her?” John insisted.

“He’s interested in you.”

“No, he…” He got a pair of raised eyebrows for his trouble. “Okay, so maybe he was but there’s nothing special in being amused by novelty.” Particularly not when that novelty almost unquestionably was tied into, if not wholly contained in, the fact that he existed in some sort of Heat-limbo and had done ever since he was shot.

Sherlock shook his head. “Not was.”

“What? What are you on about?”

“You got the tense wrong. Not was. Is. He’s not stopped being interested in you just because you’re no longer in the harem or are bonded. In fact, that has unquestionably only raised your novelty, as you put it.”

It clicked. “Because I’m bonded to you, you mean. That’s why, even when I met him right after the harem moved, he was – “

“No,” Sherlock interrupted. He said it with emphasis as he shook his head again. “It has nothing to do with me.”

“You obviously knew him before…before we met,” John argued back, “and you’ve enough of a history for you to have clear and deep disdain for him, which I can hardly see you develop for someone just because you’ve met them.  Not to that extent. Especially not one who seems as clever as you and can give Mycroft the run-around. But he was pleased to see you, I think – and come to think of it, he could smell you when I met him earlier. On me, I mean. The scent bond, presumably. All of which points to a stronger connection and interest in you than in me.”

“Had he talked to you before that?”

“Well…yes, but that doesn’t prove – “

“If Moriarty had had an interest in me rather than in you, as you suggest, he wouldn’t have gone for touching your stomach. I didn’t know at the time that you were pregnant,” judging by the momentary expression at that, it was still a sensitive subject to him, though not without reason, “so if he wanted to get to me and only to me, he would have either touched me directly or touched you somewhere intimate, like your scent gland. A place that would register as intimate and vulnerable to my instincts, as well as your own, and would cause a reaction in me to have another Alpha touch. But he didn’t.”

“Your instincts were still a factor in reacting, though.”

“They were nowhere near as fast as yours. The ones of an Omega protecting its young from whatever threat it might face.”

“So?”

Sherlock sighed, a tad dramatically, as if John was being dense on purpose. “So, why go for the exact place that you would be more conscious of and react more forcefully to than any Alpha,including me, if his interest was in me? It was you it provoked a reaction in.”

“Not just in me.” John remembered what had happened, too, and it wasn’t true to say that it had only provoked a reaction in him, was it? Not by a long chalk.

The Alpha opened his mouth, presumably to argue the point further, then stopped. His eyebrows drew together for a moment, then smoothed out again into what John would describe as a grateful expression.

“No,” he conceded. “Not just in you. But his intention was to provoke a reaction, first and foremost if not exclusively in you.”

“But…why not just take me, then, if it’s really nothing to do with you? He’s been to several of the locations we’ve been in before we moved back to London, he could’ve easily either bought me or kidnapped me if that was what he wanted, without me having any say in the matter.”

Sherlock shrugged. “I don’t know for certain. It could be any of a dozen motivations or none at all, except that he is bored, and it relieves the boredom. If I were to hazard an educated guess, however, I’d say that he was savouring you. There have been several Omegas found with seemingly no clue to who they were or were they came from.”

“Who are all dead and who you have managed to tie back to him,” John finished. Somehow, it didn’t surprise him or even horrify him. It all seemed rather par for the course, as it were.

To be honest, all he could feel right then was sadness for the poor Omegas who’d ended up victims of the man. There wasn’t even the hope or the fear that he’d put them in that situation because even he knew that he wouldn’t have made a blind bit of difference, especially not since he knew the Alpha would’ve used proxies to buy them. Sherlock hadn’t said, either, that they were harem Omegas, come to that.

“Yes.” Sherlock paused. “Would you…John, will you allow me to look into the part on Moriarty further on my own? It’s not that I want to shut you out but – “

“You don’t need a bumbling doctor to hamper you.”

Sherlock’s eyes widened a little at that. “I didn’t – I’ve never thought – “He almost stumbled over his words.

John’s lips curved into a wry half-smile as he put a finger on cupid bow lips. “I know, I’m sorry. Just being a self-deprecating arse, really. To be honest, I’m grateful that you will, and the less risk I have of running into Moriarty, the better.”

The earlier argument they’d had on whether Moriarty would come there, to the flat, was felt but left unspoken. They both knew it was there and that it factored in. There was therefore no need to voice it, nor a need to discuss what to do in that event.

He leaned down to get a kiss, removing his finger just before their lips met.

“Thank you,” he said when they parted.

“I won’t side-line you. I promise.” There was a touch of vehemence to the baritone voice at that but also a smidgeon of pleading.

John gave a small smile, mostly for reassurance, remembering that conversation, too. His heart cracked a little at the tones in that voice. “I know you aren’t, love, and that you would never. I’m sorry for ever saying that. But that wasn’t what I meant. I merely meant that I’d be pretty pissed if you tried to move in on my territory as a medical professional without any proper qualifications. As a doctor, mind, not as a chemist, there’s a difference.”

“I should hope so.”

Sherlock’s phone sounded again, loud in the momentary stillness of the flat.

“Hadn’t you better get that?”

“In a bit. Perhaps.”

That was not what John had expected to hear, at all. “And what if it’s a case?”

“I’ve already got one. A very important one that I’m afraid will take all my attention for its duration.”

The implications of that sank in for John, thankfully quickly, and he blinked once before his lips spread in a positive beam.

He was about to give his bond mate a kiss, one to communicate his gratefulness for that and the release of some of the tension that had built up inside of him, when the phone rang, loudly, as though to voice displeasure at being ignored.

Sherlock shot it a brief but somewhat intense glare but otherwise he ignored it. When it rang a second time straight after having finished ringing, however, John reached over to take it. He didn’t answer it – the number wasn’t visible – but held it out to the Alpha.

“Just say no, if need be,” he said. He had the distinct feeling that it was an important call, and not because they rang again immediately afterwards. Telemarketers did that, and they were about as quintessentially unimportant as they came.

Sherlock didn’t look convinced but nevertheless, he took the phone from John’s hand and pressed the button.

“What do you want, Mycroft?” he growled into the speaker. John wondered if he’d deduced that the caller was his brother, even if wasn’t obvious to the blond how exactly, or if he greeted all anonymous calls like that when he was annoyed, which was not outside the realm of possibility.

He turned out to be right; this close, though he couldn’t hear the precise words, John could hear the voice and there was little mistaking the voice of the elder Holmes.

Though Sherlock would undoubtedly disagree, the fact that the ginger had been this adamant about getting hold of him definitely pushed it into the realm of importance, not to mention that of worry. Why exactly was it so important?

Well, better to ask than to stand and fret.

Before he voiced the question, Mycroft had stopped speaking and Sherlock, who’d said very little after his initial comment, had taken the phone from his ear and held it out horizontally as he pressed a button.

“Speaker,” was all he said.

“Doctor Watson?” Mycroft asked.

“Present, yes. What is it?”

“This is important.”

“Obvious.” That was Sherlock.

“Sherlock. Now is _not_ the time.” There was….it wasn’t quite an urgency in his tone but something along those lines, as well as a note of steel a little uncharacteristic of Mycroft. It was certainly enough to make the younger Alpha shut up and, it seemed, listen to what his brother said.

“What is it, Mycroft?” John repeated, forcing himself calm.

He knew, even without the tone and the lack of pleasantries, that the elder Holmes wouldn’t call if there wasn’t something that he wanted. With those elements lacking as well, it became evident that the something he wanted was not just important, which he had said himself, it was imperative.

There were only a very few things of the calibre that he would think it necessary to involve John in, and the former soldier couldn’t help the tightening of his chest at the thought. But he would remain calm and deal with whatever he was dealt.

Well, he would deal, in any case.

“I have received some concrete information regarding your daughter, John.”

John drew in a sharp breath at that. He felt Sherlock grab his hand, which was a comfort and an anchor. “Do you know where she is? Have you got her?”

“Unfortunately, no, not yet. Believe me, I wouldn’t have merely called if that was the case.” There was genuine regret in the ginger’s voice, and it was easy to hear. It went a little way in helping John with his disappointment. Logically, he knew that it would’ve been too much to ask for in one go, after so long with so very little.

Of course, Mycroft had access to resources that John could never have gotten his hands on, either inside the harem or out of it. But when you took into account the measures the harem had taken to ensure their secrecy and how long they’d managed to evade detection, even from Mycroft and the rest of the British government, who was meant to crack down on the now illegal harems, it no longer surprised him that they hadn’t managed to track down someone like his daughter.

She was one little girl in a sea of millions of lost people, special and precious to nobody but him.

_That isn’t necessarily true, though, is it? For all you know, she could have ended up with a loving family somewhere else. Someone who will love and cherish her just as much as you do, regardless of whether they’re biologically related or not. Or are you really of that antiquated belief that it is only the biological parents that can truly love and care for a child?_

No, of course he wasn’t. Of course –

“John? John, can you hear me? John!”

“I’m…fine,” he said, and his voice came out as a rasp. “I’m…just give us a moment.”

He could hear Sherlock admonish Mycroft sharply for springing something like that on them without giving thought to how it might affect John. Possibly, John ought to have intervened, as that wasn’t the reason he suddenly had a bit of a turn, as he mum always put it when one of their elderly relatives had it, but he really didn’t have the thought for it right then, and to be honest, the gesture warmed and calmed his heart a little.

When he managed to get himself back and push the thought of never getting Tessa back – if she was adopted into a loving family, who was he to abruptly pull her from that just because he’d birthed her? That wasn’t what being a good parent ought to be about – Mycroft was in the process of answering. Sort of.

“How else would you have phrased it, then? To not mention her would only delay the shock, not prevent it, and barging in straight with what we have discovered would only be likely to make the shock greater.”

“It’s…fine.”

“It’s evidently not, John, don’t even start.”

John made a face at that, small but enough that Sherlock would easily pick up on it while Mycroft couldn’t, being limited to audial input. The Alpha in the room seemed to understand and give the Omega’s hand another small squeeze.

“What have you found, then?”

The voice on the other end of the phone hesitated for a moment. “There are quite a few details omitted or blacked out, but I have people working on – “

“ _Mycroft.”_ Now it was John’s turn to snap. He forced himself calm. Calmer, at least. “I…thank you for trying to be mindful of me but prolonging it isn’t actually helpful. What have you _found_?”

This time, there was no hesitation, but the voice was still rather considerate in its tone. “A paper written in French listing a baby girl in a children’s home that was made ready for adoption.” John had another small but sharp intake of breath at the word ‘adoption’ but told Mycroft to continue. He needed to know.

“The date and the mention of its age fits within the time frame that you provided me of her birth. As I mentioned, there are omitted and blacked out details that are being worked on, but we have managed to extract the name of the home and the area in which it is.”

“Which region?”

“Pays de la Loire.”

Of course. That was the exact region they’d stayed in, chosen for its distance yet proximity to old Blighty, which appealed to the users located in Britain, when the harem had last been situated in France, which was the time when he’d been pregnant with his little girl.

Did Mycroft already know that? Probably, but if he’d known at the time, he wouldn’t have been able to do anything, as French law had yet to outright ban the practice of harems, even if they didn’t explicitly condone them either and they had no extradition agreement with the UK. More likely, in any case, that he’d only been aware since he’d read the contracts, where a few of the Omegas were French, the contracts dated at the same time.

Roughly, anyway, as they had been in Nantes only a year before they’d gotten a larger and more luxurious place to stay in Angers, which they again hadn’t stayed at for more than eighteen months, mostly because the user who’d provided access had gotten ideas about the actual ownership of the harem. Rather unhealthy thoughts, it turned out.

Which reminded him that although most of the harem owners weren’t the most formidable foes, there was a reason they’d remained undetected for this long, or at least, undisturbed.

A shiver ran down his spine. It wasn’t only Moriarty they were in danger from, either nor was it just the small family they were building here at Baker Street that was in danger.

“They’re…safe, aren’t they?” he asked, his tone a little abrupt.

Thankfully, Mycroft seemed to understand the meaning behind the apparent non-sequitur.

“They are,” he confirmed, his tone reassuring without being patronisingly sweet, something which, after that initial meeting, John had always appreciated about the elder Holmes.

Not to say that Sherlock didn’t either, because he absolutely didn’t. Never had, in the time John had known him. But that kind of approach wasn’t Sherlock’s style to begin with. It was, however, Mycroft’s, with the way hands and ears had to be greased in order to advance things inside of Whitehall. That he didn’t even try to employ it with John was appreciated.

“I need to know. Need to know _for certain_ , Mycroft.”

The pause was small but there. It didn’t seem born out of reluctance, though. “...Of course. I’ll get you a pass out to see them as soon as it is possible. In the meantime, I’m afraid you will have to take my word for it. They are protected to the very best ability, from both Moriarty and the owners.”

“Right.” John drew a breath, deep and slightly laboured. “Sorry, that was…yeah.”

“It’s very kind-hearted of you to continue to look after them like that,” Mycroft said.

John had to tell himself there wasn’t any undertone to that, no hesitation or condescension. Had to mentally restrain the knee-jerk reaction to ‘kind-hearted’ and not assume that it was substituting for ‘admirable’ or ‘commendable’. He knew Mycroft better than that – hell, he’d only just thought of how he hadn’t been employing the condescending approach.

Old habits and defences died hard, he knew that, but they certainly wouldn’t die if he didn’t work to kill them off, either, would they? He owed that to him. To Sherlock. To himself.

“Thank you,” he said, and meant it, too, as the other had. “They’re…they’re my responsibility. My…mine.”

“Of course,” the ginger said, without saying anything else. Sherlock gave his hand another squeeze, still staying silent.

After another moment to pull himself together, John continued, “You’ve got the region right. We stayed in Nantes when…when she was born. When she was conceived, too. I…I can’t remember…but yeah, the time fits, too. What else does the paper say?”

Mycroft told of the details they had been able to extract so far; the eye colour, the condition she’d been in at the time – the one she would’ve been in when she’d arrived wouldn’t have made its way into that paper, just in case one of the potential parents saw – that she had been given a first name but no surname when she’d arrived. That first name had been given as ‘Celeste’, which John somehow found darkly amusing, given the circumstances of her birth.

His Tessa wasn’t a Celeste. It…no. She just wasn’t.

He wished, fervently, that he could say the things mentioned proved that it was her, without a shadow of doubt. That he had her so embedded in his mind that he’d be able to tell just like that, and in a way, she was, and he could.

But, heart breaking though it was to admit, it wasn’t her face that stood out the clearest from the scant hour he’d had with her before they had, forcibly – that gave him the smallest of comfort, to know the pain he’d inflicted on them, but it was a comfort cold to the point of frigidity – taken her from him. She was there and she was beautiful but there was no description he could give that would distinguish her far enough from so many other babies, not to anyone else.

What stood out clearest in his mind and what made him absolutely, utterly certain he’d be able to know it was her when they did find her, that was her scent.

They said that children didn’t give off scent until they reached far enough into puberty – that some people called it ‘maturity’ was laughable, as they were still more kids than they were adults – to present. As far as the outside world was concerned, that was true enough. But scent wasn’t a biological concept evolved purely for sexual purposes.

In the context of family, of pack, for lack of a better term, it was imperative not only that the Alpha could scent a child was theirs if they were of any doubt, so that, in more primitive evolutionary times, they wouldn’t kill the offspring, but that the children and Omegas could scent each other and the children would know that here was safety, here was home, instinctively. It was a sort of bond, even if there were no broken scent glands.

Beta couples fell somewhere between those parameters. A primary gender female could as easily take on the role of the Alpha in the relationship and subsequent parenthood as the primary gender male could and vice versa with the role of the Omega, being not as encumbered by the whole scent-reliance as the other two secondary genders. It lent them a freedom to pick partners for their personality, though of course many were picked for their looks instead, rather than their biological compatibility and instincts.

It did put them at a disadvantage in terms of instinctual closeness with their children, of course, but that could be compensated for, if so desired and given enough time. It didn’t mean they were loved less or wrongly, in any sense. That said, they were still derided in a lot of media for lacking that ‘innate connection’ that traditionalists tended to bang on about.

Hah. Innate connection. It was all biology, nothing more.

That said, he was grateful for that biology in some respects, and in particular here, where he could easily recall the scent his little girl had given off after she had been born. Even beneath all the other scents and stinks assaulting his nose at the time, he could scent her the moment she was out, wailing for all the world to hear.

Cleaned up and brought up to him, by Ben and another guy who’d left them about half a year later, that scent had only gotten stronger. Some people called it the ‘smell of baby’ but that wasn’t quite right. It was connected to that but not the same thing.

Even now, he could close his eyes and inhale and it’d be her scent that he could smell and nothing else. That scent wouldn’t be gone, however old she got, at least not to him as her birthparent. He’d recognise her on that alone if needed.

Once Mycroft finished relaying what information was available in the paper, which was precious little but enough to at least start with, John expected him to outline what the plan was, or at least something along those lines.

He hadn’t asked where the paper had come from or whether it was legitimate; Mycroft wouldn’t use anything he hadn’t had verified. Furthermore, John knew he had his ways, his channels and getting upset about how he acquired information was rather to bang your head against the wall, the doctor had already learned. He had no problem being stubborn when he needed to, but it was a case of picking your battles and this wasn’t one he had much interest in fighting, now or later.

Except, he didn’t outline anything. Instead, there was another pause, this one rather more pregnant than the previous one.

“What is it?” This time, it was Sherlock asking the question with an underlying but only slight impatience. It didn’t, however, imply eagerness to get it over with but interest in getting the information out in the open as soon as possible. Though John might be wrong on that score, of course.

“This…wasn’t something acquired by any of my employees. It was found in amongst the dross of papers that find its way to my PA’s desk and delivered directly to me. Where it comes from, nobody knows, and neither can anyone tell me who has brought it.” The note of repressed annoyance was evident. “It is being investigated as we speak.”

“But…doesn’t that mean that your entire office is compromised?” John asked, feeling a sense of dread settle in the pit of his stomach at the thought.

“If any part of my…area has been compromised, and that is still only a possibility, it will only have been the outer office, which is what is being investigated.” The steel was back in Mycroft’s voice, even if it wasn’t directed at either of them, indicating that heads were going to roll, and not necessarily metaphorically, either.

It assuaged the sense of dread a little but not entirely.

“How many layers of offices do you have, then?”

“Enough to ensure safety.”

“Wheels within wheels?”

“Government work, John.” As though that was all the explanation that was needed.

It probably was, given the person he was talking to, but it sent a sliver of cold down John’s spine. Though right now it was working to his benefit, it was hard not to imagine what that kind of power and contacts could cost you if you put a foot wrong.

_I had a problem with the younger Omegas thinking their life would somehow become a plot from a Mills & Boons novel with them as the main character, derided them for it, and here is something that seems to have stepped out of the lovechild crossing of a John le Carré novel and ‘Yes Minister’. Good grief._

“Excuse me if that doesn’t make me feel a whole lot safer, because wheels within wheels is where I’ve lived for several years now and if there is one thing it doesn’t is make you feel safe unless you’re the one spinning those wheels.”

There was silence for a moment after that, a moment that seemed to stretch far beyond the time it lasted.

“Understandable,” Mycroft eventually replied, slightly clipped but only slightly. “As I said, however, we do take – “

“You cannot blame him for being cautious around another facility that has a huge impact on his life in which he only has a say, this time, because you have allowed him one.” Sherlock’s snap was that of a branch keeping you from plummeting to the ground. “Especially not when it has been compromised.”

“It may not have been, that is the point,” the ginger snapped back. “It can have gotten there through entirely legitimate channels – “

“Through something which has been compromised,” the younger Holmes interrupted again. “You promised not to leave my family in any danger and now you tell me you cannot even keep your own office safe from interference – “

“Interference which means your bond mate is far closer than he has ever been to finding out where his daughter is!”

“Interference which means _our_ daughter is in possible but very real danger from whoever has given you that paper and that what we might find will not be her at all!”

They were both shouting now, Sherlock a full-blown one whereas Mycroft was shouting through a hissed whisper, somehow managing to make it sound just as emphatic as his brother.

At the last comment, however, the other end of the line fell silent, and when Mycroft’s voice returned, it was quiet and far more solemn, to the point that it was almost worse than the shouting.

“That is rather the point of all this.”

“How do you mean?” John asked.

There is a portion of blank space at the bottom of the paper. It has been filled with handwriting as have the margins. The handwriting in both places is in the same hand but the one in the margins is a far faster scrawl and roughly contemporary with the document’s printing.” He didn’t elaborate on the kinds of comments in said margins. “The one at the bottom is in English and added far more recently.”

“So? What is the significance?” Even as he said it, the possible explanation hit John. “Shit. No.”

“I’m afraid so, yes.”

“No, he is not touching her. He’s not. Not her.”

“John.”

“He can’t, Sherlock. He just can’t. Fuck’s sake, there must be – no, no!” He knew he was ranting, was shouting and barely making sense, if any at all, but he couldn’t stop. The thought, the seeming _reality_ that he was in contact with his little girl, had possibly met her, interacted with her. Possibly more than –

_“John!”_

He blinked, his vision blurring and darkening, and the next thing he knew, his face was being pressed into the area of Sherlock’s neck where the scent gland was. Involuntarily, he inhaled, the scent helping, as before, to quell his rising fear and panic and replace it with…not tranquillity but a peace of mind that allowed him to think again after a little while and some deep inhalations. It didn’t take away the fear or the other emotions floating about in his mind, but it did give him back the reins.

It was only when he felt well enough to pull back that he realised Sherlock had ended the call from Mycroft. Or possibly it had ended itself, the phone lying face down on the floor. He hadn’t heard it land.

“We’ll go and see the paper for ourselves,” Sherlock offered by way of explanation. “But he hasn’t taken her, John.”

“How can you know that?” the Omega asked, and his voice came out a little strangled. It didn’t sound helpless, though, or pitiful, which he was absurdly and irrationally grateful for.

Sherlock pulled him closer again, but without forcing his head back down. “Because if he had, he wouldn’t have kept quiet about it, then or now, and he certainly wouldn’t have employed purely this method, either.”

He sounded decisive and confident on the surface, but John thought he detected just the slight hint of trying to convince himself.

“You mean, he would either not have said anything at all or he would’ve made a far bigger show of it than this?”

“Something along those lines, yes.” It felt as though more words were pressing against the Alpha’s lips, but he wasn’t letting them past.

Looking up at him, John considered pressing him on it and was actually about to do so when he noticed that he wasn’t the only one who’d been affected by the news and the implications; he could feel the tension in the lanky body. It wasn’t easy to spot but he was getting better at it. Still, he ought to have realised earlier, instead of being a selfish git.

He rubbed at the small of the taller man’s back, trying to help ease the tension and at the same time, apologise for his lack of consideration.

“Do you think he will?” he asked. It would hardly assist his endeavour, but it was a thought he couldn’t help voicing.

“I…no. I don’t. If he does, it will be to get to you and nothing more, and there are several other effective ways to do that. That he wrote a comment on a piece of paper with details on what could be her and nothing more is….” He trailed off for a moment. “He will get the same effect from you by just alluding to it rather than following through.”

“I…you don’t believe that.” It wasn’t an accusation but merely an observation of the evidence presented to him in the Alpha’s face.

Sherlock didn’t deny it. “No. I don’t believe he will, but that is not at all a certainty and I think he could, if he wanted to. Moriarty isn’t a madman, but neither is he entirely sane. He may tip one way, or he might tip the other. He is brilliant, though.”

It sounded as though there ought to be admiration in that voice and that there might’ve been, once. Now, though, it was overshadowed and almost subsumed by the disdain and enmity he felt for the other Alpha, two feelings that were more pronounced than they had been when they’d encountered him in the harem mansion.

“Like a fractured mirror?” John asked.

“What?” Sherlock looked at him with furrowed brow, nonplussed.

To be honest, John couldn’t say where that had come from, except that it was something that he’d read somewhere. In a book, possibly, a long time ago. Why had it stuck with him? It was hardly important, was it? And yet, though he couldn’t remember the entire sentence, it felt both appropriate and important.

“Never mind,” he said. “It’s not important. Just a stray thought.”

He pulled away from Sherlock to go over to where his new jacket, which was waxed and had been among the purchases from the clothing store that he hadn’t spotted before they’d gotten home, hung next to Sherlock’s dramatic Belstaff. Taking it down, he turned to the other.

“Are we going, then?” he asked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things have happened and, more importantly, progressed. Feels like finally, I know. I hope I've delivered somewhat, though. I liked writing them all in this but I hope John doesn't come across as weak or anything like that. Sigh...me and my worries.


	8. Second-in-command

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While Sherlock's out on an errand and John's just relaxing at home when he gets a visitor who's incredibly unwelcome.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys are the sweetest readers I could hope to have. Thank you for the feedback on the last chapter and the support. <3 I'm sorry this is late for normal upload schedule but yesterday was my birthday and I took the weekend off to celebrate it.

They weren’t going. But not because Mycroft didn’t want to see them or that he didn’t deem it that important, after all.

The issue, Sherlock told John, was that although Mycroft wouldn’t say it, he was just a little rattled by the experience of not knowing who had delivered the paper. Until he found out, he would rather have them discuss the issue at his home, after work.

John asked whether it was because he didn’t want the Omega at Whitehall in the circumstances. Omegas had managed to reach the hallowed grounds of Whitehall as something other than staff, so it wasn’t that, though a pregnant one might be considered distasteful still to have to look at, much less smell in such esteemed places. Ah, yes. Progress was a merry dance of one step forward, half a step and a twist back.

What John thought could be the reason was that more than one of the harem’s regulars were ministers and quite a few others were mere MPs.

Though John had been the keeper rather than a normal occupant and therefor hadn’t been in the spotlight in the same way, he’d also been around the longest of anyone ‘employed’ there. Which meant that by coming to such a place as that, whether Sherlock was with him or not, before the matter was resolved and the owners brought to whatever justice Mycroft deemed appropriate, regardless of the judicial system, the former soldier would be running the risk of him being recognised by anyone of them. The potential consequences of which were easy to guess at.

Sherlock confirmed that such considerations were part of it, too. They had to be when you dealt with such things. Mycroft couldn’t afford to tip his hand early and ruin everything because of one minor thing. But he also said that regardless of such considerations, what mattered to him most was keeping John safe.

Not that the rest didn’t matter, obviously, he’d proven that clearly enough, but there were ways to get around that without sacrificing safety and time, so that was what he’d do.

What _they’d_ do, John corrected him, but gently. Consciously so, because he could see the intentions behind it, and he was determined to work on and better his own behaviour to not include that knee-jerk reaction anymore. Or at least curtail it when it happened, such as now.

That Sherlock had smiled a soft, warm smile at the correction had only strengthened that determination, though it also brought forth again the guilt of what his knee-jerk reactions wrought.

The plan for what they were to do instead was formulated quickly. Instead of going to Whitehall, they would go visit the elder Holmes in his home. As there was a social engagement that Mycroft was expected to attend that evening, with no way of ducking out of it without rousing speculations, more than was the grist the mill always ran on, they would have to postpone it until the following evening.

John tried not to be jittery in the meantime. To think about other things and not let the worry consume him, and for the most part, he succeeded.

Just because he was now closer to her than he’d been since he’d held her at her birth, just because she was now in danger…that didn’t really change much, if really anything. He still wasn’t close enough to protect her from harm if it should occur, and he had no way of knowing she hadn’t been in danger before, far worse danger than this.

If he was brutally honest with himself, he didn’t even know whether she was actually still alive, however much he fervently, desperately hoped that she was. The thought that he would find her, only to be met with a dead body or a gravestone tore his heart to pieces even if he knew he had to be prepared for the eventuality. As well as her ended up worse than dead, too.

But he needed to remain as level-headed as possible and as calm as he could manage. Not just for his own sake or Sherlock’s or even Tessa’s, but for the twins, who’d been through enough stress and trauma even at this stage of their development, where they hadn’t even left the womb yet.

It would just figure that in his pursuit to save one of his children, he ended up causing his two other children harm. That was supposed to be something that resulted in a screaming match about favouritism and how much he sucked as a father when they were all in their teens.

The problem was that though he needed something to take his mind off it, nothing in the flat seemed to do the trick – the idea that if you don’t think about something constantly and to the almost complete exclusion of all other concerns, you don’t really care about whatever it is, had always struck him as ludicrous. If you did that, you’d go mad sooner or later, which would be no help to anyone. Of course, he was hardly one to talk, but he was aware of it and he did _try._

He closed the book he’d been attempting to read to escape his own head for a bit for the sixth time. The words just weren’t sinking in, never mind him becoming absorbed in what was on the page. He tried again.

Perhaps the trouble shouldn’t be considered surprising, as the book in question was one of Sherlock’s, on the topic of poisonous plants and their uses throughout the ages, something which could’ve been a good and engrossing read in the right hands but could as well be told in a way that was dry and dragging, which it was to him.

Or maybe there was nothing wrong with the book and it was all on him. Most probably, as his mind kept superimposing the people he knew and cared about onto the various victims of the plants described.

Frustrated, worried, angry, very tired and certain he was going to have nightmares that night, he closed the book again and just barely managed not to hurl it.

As he drummed his fingers against the cover instead, something caused a breeze. He looked up as a lock clicked and the front door opened – Sherlock had gone out to get them something to eat, he’d said, about half an hour earlier– warily, instinct kicking in to prepare him in case it was someone who wished either of them harm.

Which turned out to be a rather valid response.

Though his mind told him that half an hour was feasible a timeframe for Sherlock to get the food and come home, quite apart from who else would have a key, his instincts had more sense, drawing for instance on the scent particles present in the air around a person, picked up by the nose but not necessarily consciously registered in the brain. They were proven right when the door opened all the way and the person behind was not Sherlock, Mrs. Hudson or even Mycroft come with the document for him.

Nor was the person Moriarty, who was, if John had expected it to be anybody else, or at least one his instincts would go on alert for, the one he’d have expected.

Instead, the person in the door opening was taller, broader, more muscled and overall exuded pure ‘Alpha’ in all the ways that James Moriarty did not. All that he needed to complete the look was clothes that clung in all the right places, as it were, and perhaps some deliberate stubble to add that alluringly rugged look.

Not that it was John’s idea of an ideal Alpha but the blueprint that decorated so many Mills & Boons novels and featured in so many romantic movies, he most certainly fitted the bill.

One other thing that certainly fit right in with the stereotype was the smell. Unlike with other Alphas, where that might have translated into pure cockiness, here it seemed to further emphasise the power and inherent danger of the man.

That was at least one place where he resembled the Irishman, even if they were almost diametrically different in nearly every other respect.

All of this registered within the blink of an eye and John’s instincts, the ones of the Omega, told him to not anger the Alpha, to sit by and try to look as non-intimidating as possible.

The instincts of the soldier, however, saw it much differently, and while they too told him to stay put, it was for completely different reasons. For one thing, they registered that the stance of the Alpha, for all of the crossed arms, was that a soldier, one that’d been in the military long enough to have the posture ingrained in him but had also been out of the military long enough for it to have lost some of its rigidness. Why would someone like that no longer be a soldier? There seemed no obvious reason but then again, neither was there anything visible in John, was there.

But it meant that while he was capable of fighting, and at an estimate both quite good at it and quite used to it, he would’ve had to curb some of that inner brutality that came so easily to a certain type of Alpha. Not enough, possibly, but enough so that he wouldn’t lunge immediately and would be likely to use techniques that John had learned, too. There would be time to work out a better strategy, as well, all of which he could use to his advantage.

While this deduction, and he couldn’t help the thought that Sherlock would be proud of him for it, didn’t stop him from being tense, it wasn’t the tenseness of someone waiting in trepidation and fear of what would happen next but that of someone readying itself for that same thing.

There. The superiority of acquired instincts in combination with learned skillsets over inherent, gender-based ones.

No…that distinction wasn’t quite fair on his secondary gender, though. His Omega instincts weren’t telling him to sit by meekly and let the Alpha do what it wanted with him. Yes, he fought his inherent instincts and cursed them often enough, too, he could admit that. However, he also made good use of them.

He was conflating what his upbringing as an Omega had taught him and what his instincts were actually telling him, chalking those that told him to be ready to fight up to coming exclusively from the developed instincts of his military training, which wasn’t true. Nor was it a product of him being pregnant, either, his instincts telling him to protect his offspring by any means possible.

But he didn’t normally…did he? No, he wouldn’t have thought so at all, so why had it happened now?

Was there something else in the Alpha’s scent beyond normal musk and traces of pheromones? Why would there be, and why would it affect him like that? No, the idea was stupid. But why else?

The Alpha, who hadn’t moved from the door opening but had instead started to lean on the door frame with one shoulder, grinned down at him, which showed off the slightly yellowed but straight teeth and, more importantly, the slightly longer than usual incisors.

The object was evidently to intimidate but the doctor wasn’t going to play ball. Whatever was going on in his head, his face outwardly betrayed nothing as he looked back at the intruder calmly, unthreatened.

Though he couldn’t put his finger on where or when, John had the distinct impression that the man in front of him was someone he’d seen before. It would’ve been a long time ago, and seeing as he was ex-military, it wouldn’t be a far stretch for them to have crossed paths at some point before John’s discharge. Even so, there was something about it, about him that rankled in the back of the blond’s mind, and it wasn’t purely if at all because he’d just effectively broken into the flat.

Had that click in fact not been of the key opening the lock but a lockpick? He couldn’t say.

“Guess he was right, then,” the Alpha said, his tenor voice edging towards baritone but with an odd rasp that marred the otherwise smooth received pronunciation he possessed, though despite that, it still had the slightest hint of a London accent, too. “You have found yourself a new hole to crawl into. What, palaces suddenly too grand for you?”

Palaces? Why the – oh. Either Whitehall or, more likely, referring to the stately home the harem had been relocated to in Scotland, because otherwise it seemed rather a random and pointless comment to make, even if he was fishing for some kind of reaction.

Nothing about John himself would indicate that he’d be used to palaces, or had been once upon a time, either; that he’d given it up between then and now. Not on its own, without prior knowledge of his history and situation.

Who’d know? Mycroft, of course, but he’d neither employ a man like that, not for something like this, and if he needed to send someone, he’d send that assistant John had seen a few times, the one that had gone with Ruby in the ambulance. In other words, someone he trusted wholly and implicitly, a core qualification for someone in her position.

That reasonably only left either the owners or Moriarty, or possibly both, if there was indeed more overlap between them than the dark-haired Alpha having the run of their properties, any of which he’d not at all discount as a likely possibility, given what he knew about the man. Which wasn’t a lot, he was aware of that, but that seemed one part that was certain, or as certain as could be.

There was the use of ‘he’, of course, but that could just be a general term.

John extended the outward seeming disregard that his new home had been effectively broken into, with the trespasser completely nonchalant about it, to his voice when he asked, “What do you want?”

The grin only widened at that. “Not even a ‘who are you’ to start off with?”

“I don’t really care much who you are. I know you’re connected to people who wish me harm, one way or another, though I haven’t decided which one, yet. But that said, you’re not interested in simply grabbing me or even purely hurting me, or you wouldn’t have wasted time standing there, trying for intimidation instead.”

The Alpha lost his smile somewhat but otherwise seemed unfazed. “Oh, yeah? Figured that out, did you? Quite the little apprentice, aren’t you?”

“Oh yes. I’ll be moving onto the advanced class soon, I’m pretty sure. He’s ever so proud. Now, what do you _want?_ ”

Only on the last word did he drop the unaffected air to growl at the other.

“Why would I want anything?” Though still seemingly nonchalant, the Alpha stopped leaning against the doorframe, straightening up and folding his arms over his chest as he did so. The eyes, brownish green, had lost some of their humour, too. Actually, they’d lost a lot.

_Oh. So, you can only take so much insubordination, can you? Especially from a little Omega who really ought to know his place, judging by the small but increasing spikes in your scent. I certainly shouldn’t be growling at you like that. Well, it’s not like you’re the first macho Alpha blockhead I’ve had to deal with, and back then I was expected to at least pay some curtesy to my superior officers._

No, but he couldn’t attack him unprovoked, either and not just because he might face a fight that wouldn’t end well.

Though it could be argued that breaking and entering, going into a territory that was neither his nor somewhere he’d been invited into, like the Alpha had was provoking an Omega, a pregnant one, and there had been made further laws to protect Omegas in such situations, a lot of judges were old-fashioned, to put it very diplomatically, and leaned towards sympathy for the Alpha instead.

“Just thought you’d in for a social visit at a stranger’s flat, is it? Never mind that it’s up a flight of stairs and the door was locked, though, that’s just a minor detail. If you won’t tell me, then you can ever so kindly _piss off,_ because I’ve had just about enough for one day and you’re not going to rile me or intimidate me or whatever else Alpha knotweed shite you’re trying to pull. So…just, go the fuck away.”

What was left of the smile vanished at that.

“Don’t try me, Omega,” the Alpha said, the humour in his eyes replaced with simmering disdain and contempt. They were not dominant, but they were certainly visible now.

John still wasn’t going to back down. He’d gripped the book he’d been reading when the door had opened and he now shifted his grip, getting ready to throw it. There were also a few items on the coffee table that could be used as projectile weapons in a pinch.

“Or what? You’ll attack me? Why the delay, then? That’s not very efficient, is it, officer? Or should that be ex-officer?”

The corner of the upper lip curled for a brief moment, as though the man was trying to suppress the instinct of the Alpha, the hackles raised at the direct challenge.

That attempt seemed to be successful, though, as after a moment, the whole body relaxed. Not entirely but enough so that to the causal eye it would appear as though nothing was the matter.

“Clever.”

“Not particularly.” John pretended to turn his attention to something on the table, while in reality keeping it all on the intruder.

“Why are you still here?” he asked.

That he was effectively baiting the man, someone who was both bigger and almost certainly stronger than he was, he was well aware of. It wasn’t because he didn’t care or was feeling particularly reckless towards the Alpha and what he represented. Nor was he itching for a fight that he wanted the Alpha to start.

Not only would it be the man’s word against his that John had been acting in self-defence, the blond had no intention to unnecessarily risk the health of his unborn children. He’d put them under enough strain as it was and while there was some truth in the notion that a part of him desperately craved challenge and danger, the adrenaline that such things brought, he wasn’t quite that stupid.

But to let the Alpha, who hadn’t even bothered to introduce himself, think that he could just break in as he pleased, and John would cower and meekly wait for whatever the other saw fit to say or do…that was not going to happen. Ever.

Nor was he merely biding his time until his own Alpha came back to deal with him. He was in no doubt that Sherlock was capable of dealing with him but regardless of whether he was or not, John didn’t want him to. They were a pair and a couple and he was getting better at thinking of them as that couple, that they should work as a unit. Something which it seemed they were rather good at, proven both by the escape from the harem and afterwards.

However, that didn’t mean that they were _only_ a couple or that John was incapable of handling things such as this on his own. If he needed it, he wasn’t as stupid as to have qualms about calling his bond mate.

_At least you aren’t anymore. Or right now, at any rate._

He should be capable of dealing with this arse on his own, though.

_And it’s got nothing to do with you proving yourself, has it?_

…Perhaps a little. He could concede to that. But it certainly wasn’t the main point. The main point was that John could handle such an intruder, whether through words, presence or action.

For instance, though he was baiting him and there was a risk that he’d react violently, he wouldn’t have come here merely with the intent to intimidate or threaten, not when he was employed by either the harem owners or Moriarty. The owners weren’t as clever as they thought they were, but they clever enough and were certainly far from stupid enough to hire someone like that for a job like this.

John would hazard a guess that the one he was actually working for was Moriarty, and not just because he’d said ‘he’ earlier. Of course, the earlier thought that they could be one and the same in this case still applied but the one the man answered to, that would be Moriarty.

Why Moriarty would send both that paper to Mycroft and then send someone with a message to John or Sherlock, within a day or two, was a speculation that John would rather not have at that moment, as it made him worry and bile rise in his throat, and he was not going to allow this berk to see it. So, he pushed it aside for the time being.

If asked about why he was so sure suddenly, he’d point out that now that he thought about it, the harem never employed someone so… _abundantly_ Alpha as that, at the risk that an employee would be overcome with Rut or pure possessiveness around an entire group of people picked for being pleasing to the senses and societally trained to comply, to the point that it would probably not occur to them to hire someone like that. They preferred Betas, in particular those who were big enough to pass for Alphas at a quick glance but did not have the aggression or instincts to go with it.

Baiting him would, hopefully, make him get to the point rather than try to be clever.

_There are already enough buggers who picked that role._

The Alpha proved him right by snarling at the comment but he neither retreated nor lunged at the seated man.

“You’re a right little shit, aren’t you?” Despite the momentary snarl, the words came out calm enough. Well, relatively. “Just because you were rescued, like some little damsel in a tower, you think you’re sitting pretty and safe in your Alpha’s den.”

“I never learned how to sit pretty, however many lessons I got,” John said as he turned his head slowly back to look at the other. He gave him the sincerest of false smiles. “But yeah, you’re right, I probably am a little shit. I guess that’s the patriarchy for you, or maybe it’s just a side effect of being an Omega.”

He paused for a moment. Perhaps another direction was needed to make the Alpha talk, to at least provide something useful, even if it did mean that he had to think about what he really didn’t want to.

The Alpha took the decision out of his hands by finally deciding to spill the reason he’d come.

He didn’t do it in words, though, not immediately. Instead, he dug into the pocket of the leather bomber jacket he was wearing. In fact, he dug into both pockets, though only pulling out something from one.

For a second, John tightened his grip on the book at the same time he tensed, ready to duck or dive in case what was in there was a gun or something equally dangerous.

The grin, as trustworthy as that of a shark, reappeared briefly as the man tossed one thing at him.

“It ain’t dangerous,” the Alpha said. “Ain’t gonna blow myself up or the like, am I?”

John glared at him but nevertheless took a look at what had landed in his lap. No, it wasn’t dangerous, that was true. But that wasn’t to say it was comforting in the slightest, either

For one, it wasn’t one thing. It was two.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am sorry if you can see I've struggled a bit, both in the chapter and in general. I am trying to juggle the story (and the others) and I think I might drop threads or repeat things or the like.   
> Not to bore anyone but I have some brain-related issues that make keeping track of everything difficult, among many, many other things (look up ABI if you like). Just going forward...well, now you know, for what it's worth. I hope you understand.


	9. Each other's anchor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John deals with his intruder and Sherlock comes home to the aftermath

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A great many apologies for the wait time on this chapter.  
> Thank you for the understanding and support from the last chapter, guys. Admitting to something like ABI wasn't easy to do so thank you. ❤️

 

They were crumpled up, as would make sense for having been in a pocket. There was the sense that they were supposed to have been presented neatly, evidenced by the string around both items, thick and of some quality.

They were bibs. Rather expensive, high-quality ones of the same colour.

Well, Moriarty had been the one to out to Sherlock, as it were, that John was pregnant, and he’d made some sort of reference to an expected invitation to a baby shower or something like that when he left. To remind John of that like this was uncomfortable, odd and more than a little creepy but hardly important enough to send someone to deliver it, at least someone he employed rather than just a courier.

That wasn’t what sent an icy shiver down John’s spine, however. Not on its own.

What did was that the bibs weren’t just of quality material, they had something embroidered on them, in a rather elegant font. The problem was what the text said; ‘Yes, we are twins’.

Moriarty knew they were having…but no, he couldn’t. It had to be pure coincidence or an attempt to mess with him.

What were the odds that he’d get it right, though? If he didn’t believe it to be one, as John had, why would he pick twins? It wasn’t as though twins were the only or even the most common outcome for Omega pregnancies with multiple. In fact, though Sherlock had leaned towards twins, he would’ve shot towards the more common occurrence if he’d guessed on triplets.

Multiples weren’t as common as the media would have you believe, though. Especially romcoms that leaned on the maternal angle would have the Omega in question either be from a large litter with a doting Omega mother or they would entrance the Alpha with their fertility. Sometimes they would even stoop so low as to have the Alpha utter something along the lines of ‘You smell so wonderful and fertile; I know you’ll give me a large litter’.

It was utterly asinine, not to mention degrading to both Alpha and Omega, but it seemed to appeal to the masses or at least, that was what the people making it continued to believe.

That…skewering of reality also seeped into what got reported on in the tabloids and on more ‘respected’ news. Open a glossy magazine and you’d see at least one story a week speculating on some celebrity or other’s gained weight suggesting pregnancy. More often than not, it would then almost invariably claim that the way it had settled was indisputable evidence that they were most definitely, without question, carrying multiples, no matter how far along they were, or weren’t, in the supposed pregnancy.

The more proper news rarely reported on such news, unless it concerned the royal family. They did, however, sometimes run stories on studies on the subject, which were almost guaranteed to be slanted towards the benefits of being pregnant, especially with more than one child.

This, in a way, harboured back to old wisdom and tied in with the reason harems had developed in the first place. To have children and caring for them was always easier in groups, especially when multiples occurred. The risk of the gravid person not surviving the ordeal was very real, though, and the fear had, despite the glamorisation the media had pushed, curbed the total glorification of litters in the general populace.

In reality, while multiples were not exactly rare, they did not constitute quite that huge a percentage of pregnancies. Around a third of pregnancies had two or more, especially if the one pregnant had carried more than one before, and of that third, triplets counted for a third of that. Twins were a quarter of what was left, and the rest was divided fairly equally between the various larger litters.

So, why, with all that in mind, would Moriarty go for twins instead of either just one or, if multiples, three, if this was just a shot in the dark to creep John out or manipulate him into thinking he knew more than he did? How likely was it that he’d get it right in light of that?

But if he had genuinely found out that John was carrying two children, how had he done it? Nobody knew, apart from Mycroft, Sherlock and John, and, of course, the woman who’d done his ultrasound at the clinic.

Well, she would’ve written his details down for later use, which would be stored in their database, which in turn would be hackable. She didn’t need to have any ill-will towards him for that to have been the leak, so to speak.

The fact that he could think of such an easy explanation did not, however, lessen the unpleasant feelings in the pit of his stomach. Was there any reason, proper reason, to let him know that he knew?

_Does he need one?_

No. He supposed not. Perhaps he’d just been caught up in what he’d discussed earlier with Sherlock and had extended that to this, too. Which might be true, too, that there was a reason, either the same as why he’d messed with John in the first place, or something else. Either or, really.

He could ask the Alpha, he supposed, but he highly doubted that he’d get any sort of answer, never mind a useful one.

Then he noticed something attached to the string tying the bibs together. A small card, written in a tidy if not exactly neat hand, read,

‘I saw these and thought of you. Still waiting for that invitation’.

It wasn’t signed but then again, it hardly needed to be, did it?

Definitely messing with him, and the worst part was, it was working, even though he was trying hard not to let it, it was.

Even the Alpha in the doorway seemed to pick up on it because when John looked back up at him, he was grinning again.

Except…he wasn’t quite in the doorway anymore. John would’ve noticed, even distracted as he’d been, if he’d moved up close but the small step into the flat proper, he hadn’t registered.

Being a little closer, he then took, still keeping eye contact, an audible and deliberate breath through his nose, where it was the easiest to pick up on scent and the associated pheromones.

He must’ve gotten at least quite a bit of Sherlock’s scent as well, just by virtue of the place being saturated with it. That wasn’t to say that he wasn’t capable of liking it – just because he looked like something out of a Mills & Boons didn’t entail that he couldn’t prefer his own secondary gender.

Or he could swing both ways, of course, both in terms of primary and secondary genders, that was as much a possibility as anything. But still, though John could see the way the pupils dilated, he knew it was mainly for show, and so was the tongue that came out to swipe across a bottom lip.

That said…the words he uttered next didn’t quite tally with that.

“Perhaps he’ll be willing to share, come the end.”

Wait, what?

John didn’t say that out loud, though. Instead, he merely narrowed his own eyes.

The Alpha’s grin broadened. “Shame to leave but I’ve got other things to do.”

“By all means.”

The other man didn’t leave, though, but leaned forward, presumably to scent him properly. Whatever else was going through the doctor’s mind, he wasn’t having anyone that close without express permission and so he reached out and pushed the side of his hand into the throat of the other, hard. Not enough to cut off his air but certainly enough that it would prevent him from moving further forward, in case that made up the difference.

“Don’t test me, Omega,” the Alpha nevertheless managed to hiss between his teeth.

“Then don’t try to take advantage of me or piss me off, knotweed,” John growled back. “I will fight you, if I need to, and if you think I’m weak because I’m an Omega or even that I’ve been out of the army a while, well…” He smiled himself at that, one entirely without humour.

“I could break your neck.”

“As I could yours,” John returned, evenly, “and my hand is at your throat, so perhaps you’d be better of actually listening for a change and buggering the hell off.”

The Alpha glared at him but did eventually pull back. He also backed away till he almost reached the door. There he turned, holding up a hand in a casual farewell gesture, as though he’d dropped in on an old friend for a moment.

Before he went, though, he paused, then dug into his jacket pocket and pulled out what he had left in there. Without looking back, he threw it over his shoulder. Then he was gone.

John didn’t immediately focus on what had been thrown at him and had landed on the floor, registering only that it was clothing in a bag as he kept his eyes on the door, wanting to make sure that the bastard didn’t think again and return.

There would be no reason to but then, when had that ever stopped a type like that? Breathe the wrong way, or breathe at all, and that’d be all the excuse they’d need.

Once he was quite certain, though, he turned his attention back on it…only to wish that he hadn’t.

Though as crumpled as the bibs had been, the fabric was larger and of a much less gender-neutral colour than they were. In fact, it was the most vivid cherry red, with just a few hints of admittedly faded white visible in the small heap.

He could be wrong, of course, but he knew somehow that he wouldn’t be. That wouldn’t be the way the chips landed. Not for him, not at this junction.

Heart beginning to thud, he leaned over, reaching for the cloth.

As soon as he picked it up, there was no doubt that it was a dress, the white bits being the hem, the bias binding on the sleeves and the little Peter Pan collar. One designed for a little girl in the age range of three to four. Which was just about the right age, wasn’t it?

That wasn’t it, though. On its own, that could easily be chalked up to just another attempt to mess with him, knowing what age his little girl would be and picking a dress that matched the age range. Something off Oxfam, to make it look used.

But it wasn’t. Or rather, it might be an attempt to mess with him, in fact it almost certainly was, but they were more…direct than that, so to speak. To the point.

This wasn’t any little girl’s dress. This had belonged to his Tessa.

He’d known it before he’d gotten it up close, somewhere in the core of his soul and the depths of his instincts, but the moment he got it out of the bag and was able to clearly scent it, he was in no doubt. This was hers, a dress she had worn, and worn often enough that it had left a scent trace that was impossible to be washed out completely. It certainly couldn’t be quashed by being manhandled by others or be in the vicinity of other scents.

He’d thought that he’d be able to recognise her scent anywhere, no matter that she’d been in his arms for so short a time, and he was right. There could be no doubt.

Maybe it was only him that would be able to scent it on the clothing, it being too faint and too old for others but that didn’t matter. He knew it was hers. Could only ever be hers.

He didn’t immediately realise he’d dropped the bibs and was clutching the dress in his hands as though he could will her to come back him through that alone. Nor that he’d pressed the fabric up to his nose and was inhaling. When he did, he found it had to stop doing it. Tremendously so.

It felt as though, the moment he did, he would lose her. Which was utterly ridiculous, of course. He would neither gain nor lose her through a garment that she’d worn, of course he wouldn’t, but knowing that it was ludicrous did very little, if anything, to help.

_No. You can do it. It’s Moriarty messing with you, same as with the paper he’d given to Mycroft. That’s all this is. It doesn’t bring you any closer to her, it doesn’t tell you where she is or where she’s –_

But maybe it did. Maybe Sherlock could find something on it. It smelled of having been washed since it had last been worn, the laundry detergent subtle but evident in a way only fresh washing would provide. It had not, however, much of other traces of scent, not even that of Moriarty or that arsehole of an Alpha he’d used for a messenger.

That said Alpha was indeed working for Moriarty, John was no longer in doubt of. The owners wouldn’t pull stunts like this and they certainly wouldn’t find any satisfaction in riling him up like this.

_Or hinting that your daughter is with him and he wants you to –_

No. That notion was still utterly ludicrous, whatever Sherlock said. Moriarty didn’t have any interest in John. Not really, beyond what they’d already discussed. He didn’t believe that. He _couldn’t_ believe that.

But with this…with this, perhaps Sherlock could find something. He was educated as a chemist, wasn’t he? More importantly, he was a detective, consulting or not; he used information that he gathered in a number of ways to help him solve whatever the current mystery was. Those facts, combined with the microscope and other lab equipment that practically littered the kitchen, meant that he could probably at least extract something or other from the dress.

_Oh, really? And what do you expect him to find? A petal from a flower which grows only in one small region of France? Fabric thread which is exclusive to one particular brand that is only sold in very select stores on the continent?_

No, of course not. Not that specific, at least. But something that perhaps, at least, would narrow it down a little more.

Anything, really. Any little scrap would do.

All he had to go on was…well, what he’d been provided with by Moriarty, come to think of it. Which was not only unsettling but more than a little puzzling.

There were several ways other than this he could’ve gone if the intention was merely to mess with John. Leaving it at the bibs, for instance. The stunt he’d pulled with the outing of the blond’s pregnant state and his attempts to touch it, for another, or just the general behaviour he’d exhibited the times John had met him in the harem. Those would’ve easily done the trick, without him having to resort to specific reference to, not to mention clues about, the daughter he’d been forced to give up.

He could even have elected to let it remain far more cryptic, if he was determined to go that angle, too. Not that either bit of information was, as far as he knew, exactly a bright shining landing strip that guided them to her location. Even so, however, he would’ve thought the Irishman would’ve gone for something a bit less…helpful, than that.

The thought that there might be something, anything, on the dress that could assist his Alpha in finding out more about her, even if it wouldn’t be her location, was what finally made him capable of prying the fabric away from his nose and stop clutching it so tightly.

Before the urge gripped him again, he quickly put it back into the bag, which could be sealed, which he did.

“John?”

The voice was quiet and familiar but much closer than he’d have thought, and he started somewhat at the unexpected presence. Which he then berated himself for doing, because he shouldn’t be in a position where he could be startled. He ought to be aware of his surroundings.

_Even as a soldier, you knew that wasn’t possible. Not at all times, and you’ve just had an emotional rollercoaster._

And what happened when somebody threw him for a loop in a life and death situation? Just say woops, that was too bad, thanks for the life I’ve had, you can’t be alert constantly, can you?

_No. That’s an entirely different situation and you know that perfectly well because you’ve experienced both, been able to make the distinction and react accordingly. Don’t put yourself down unnecessarily – especially not when your subconscious will have picked up on Sherlock’s scent, even in a room saturated with it, and have dulled if not downright deactivated the warning system. It knows even if you don’t._

That was…well, he couldn’t really argue against that, could he? Any of it, really.

“John?” Sherlock repeated, as softly as before.

He was sitting crouched to the side of the sofa, gripping the armrest tightly with his hands as he stared at his mate. His coat was still on, as though he’d gone directly to John the moment that he’d opened the door, which was the case. There was a white plastic bag smelling enticingly of something or other on the floor just inside the front door.

His voice sounded strained, almost strangled despite its softness and when John looked up at him, his face was tense, with an expression on it that was made up of a lot of emotions, forming a strange, hard-to-decipher tapestry. It was evident, though, that he was trying hard to keep it under control.

That the caring consideration was at the forefront despite the swirl of other emotions there meant a lot to John.

It took him only a moment to realise why the expression would be such a mess; Sherlock didn’t know what had happened between the time he’d left and when he’d returned. To be fair, he could probably hazard a guess that was more accurate than most people’s certainties, but still. He didn’t know.

“Sherlock, I...” he swallowed, then carried on, determined. “I need you to check this. For…for any evidence of…for any evidence you can find. No matter how small. Please.” He knew he probably sounded a little desperate, but he couldn’t help it. Nor would he if he could.

He held out the bag for the dress and Sherlock took it without hesitation.

“Of course,” he said, voice still strangled. “Of course, I will.”

He paused, too, seeming to fight with himself over something, though John couldn’t tell what exactly that was. The Omega would wait for him to win the fight.

After a moment or two, it looked as though he succeeded.

“But I…John, you need to tell me, who’s been here? Why was there somebody here? What did he did do? What –? “The baritone voice, which had risen a little with each question, abruptly cut off, as though its owner realised what he’d been doing and attempted to clamp down on it.

Perhaps he hadn’t succeeded after all.

“I’m…sorry, I didn’t…I shouldn’t demand…” The strangled quality was back, along with more than a smidgeon of guilt.

“No, don’t apologise. Please don’t. I’m…I was going to tell you. I just…please.” The words got stuck in his throat.

He reached out his hand at the same time he tilted his head to the side, baring his neck as much as he could, in the hope that it could get across what he had trouble putting into words.

The Alpha seemed to understand what he meant by the gesture; putting the bag quickly but carefully on the coffee table, he grasped the Omega’s hand tightly in his and rose so that he could reach the scent gland that John had exposed. At the same time, he pulled at his own collar with his unoccupied hand, freeing access to his own scent gland.

The moment their noses touched that most concentrated area of their scents, somewhat mingled now that they were bonded but still detectable as their own unique smell, the calm he’d felt each time he’d pressed his nose there and inhaled returned to him, managing once again to pull him out of the fear and the worry that he’d been sinking into. His thoughts settled down again into a manageable pace rather than the jumbled mess they had been, and he no longer felt on edge.

Sherlock seemed to experience much of the same; his breathing deepened and slowed, the tenseness of his muscles eased gradually but nevertheless quickly and the grip he had on John’s hand slackened to something approaching the normal range.

They stayed like that for a long while, just needing the calm, the reassurance and the security that it brought. It wasn’t even just what had happened between Sherlock leaving and returning, either, as residue of what had gone before that, which had accumulated like the sea depositing sand or the build-up of stalactites over time, played a great part in it, too, for them both.

Eventually, they pulled away. John was the first to do so but Sherlock followed his lead, looking at the other. The expression on his face from before hadn’t entirely dissipated but it had certainly become a backseat one. In front was a worried but patient expression, together with the earlier caring.

John took a breath and began to explain.

* * *

_Earlier_

__

Sherlock could scent that someone had been to the flat before he even opened the door to his, to _their_ flat, and it stopped him dead on the landing. Of course, to a degree it was always possible to detect somebody else through their scent. That was one of the defining characteristics of adult human beings, after all; outside of Rut and Heat, they were still detectable if you cared to scent for them.

Much like with every other sensory input, however, they faded into the background tapestry that was living among other humans and whatever else was needed to make modern living possible, becoming a smudged whole that you never truly registered.

Sherlock did use that fact to his advantage in his work, that people saw but didn’t observe, or in this case, inhaled but didn’t scent, which gave him a bit of an advantage. Not that he employed it exclusively, of course. It was a tool in his arsenal, that was all.

This, though...this wasn’t merely the flat Sherlock had lived in for years, thus giving him an instinctive and clearer sense of what the background consisted of, even when he didn’t consciously register it. It was also his territory, filled with his scent – John’s, though detectable to the Alpha, didn’t have the benefit of time to permeate in the same way, quite apart from the fact that it wasn’t exactly strong, at least not to others, and would need even longer to permeate – and he could smell outsiders easily, whatever their secondary gender.

Especially Alphas, with their starker scent. At least this one hadn’t thought to enhance his natural output with enhancing perfumes, as was the trend among a certain subset.

Still, though, it was quite bad enough, and Sherlock’s hackles rose instantly the moment he smelled it. More than that, and far stronger than that, thankfully, did his protective instincts and concern for John’s wellbeing. They still weren’t conducive to keeping a clear and rational mind, of course, but at least the clouded judgment came from a much healthier place, then.

It wasn’t quite as clouded, either, and helped him think through it before he opened the door.

Why would an Alpha come here? Did John know someone that he’d invite over? Not that there was anything wrong with that, obviously. Sherlock had no intention of being one of those partners – that it was only Alphas that were capable of exhibiting that kind of behaviour was not only reductive, it was entirely untrue – that wouldn’t allow his bond mate to meet with someone without the younger Holmes present himself or having granted permission for his partner to meet that person.

If it was someone from the Omega’s life before the harem, someone that mattered to him and that he wanted to see, then Sherlock…Sherlock would be happy to have them come visit. He might have to struggle a little with some instincts at that, but he’d do it if it meant something to his partner and would make him happy.

As far as he knew, though, John had no one now, apart from the people he’d cared for in the harem. He certainly hadn’t mentioned anyone but that wasn’t much of a clue in itself, unfortunately. It wasn’t as though he was exactly overflowing with information about himself, especially not when it came to his life before the harem. Anecdotes and such, yes, but none of those gave any indication that he would still be in contact with any of the people he mentioned.

In fact, Sherlock had gotten the distinct to the point of a two-by-four impression, from those stories, the lack of other mentions and the complete lack of attempts to contact anybody once he got out of the harem, that John had no wish to have contact with anybody he’d known before.

The consulting detective could deduce quite a lot of the reason as to why that was. Even though he wasn’t exactly the social butterfly himself, which suited him just fine, it didn’t feel right for John not to have people around him, somehow. But no, that wasn’t quite right, either, was it?

The point was that there would be nobody Sherlock could think of that John knew from his previous life that he could invite over and there’d been nobody, as far as he knew, since they’d escaped the harem that the Omega had formed a connection to.

_You ought to address that and soon,_ an inner voice commented. _To keep him cooped up in the flat, or only out when the two of you are together, that’s bound to drive him round the bend sooner or later. Probably sooner, given everything._

But was John really that socially minded?

_Doesn’t really matter, though, does it? Here’s another thought for you; if you don’t at least give him the opportunity, you’ve effectively merely exchanged one cage for another, this one with far less glamour than the last._

That thought sent a frozen lump into the pit of his stomach. No. He wouldn’t – that wasn’t his intention. That had never been his intention. Not now nor when Tessa came home or when the twins were born. He would protect John from every possible thing that he could, without question or hesitation, if that was necessary, as John was more than capable of looking after himself as well. But that didn’t entail shielding him from the world.

He wouldn’t. He…would have to make sure that he didn’t, whatever that took.

But what about the situation they were in right now? How could he keep such a promise to himself in view of both the harem owners and Moriarty looking for him? Until the issue was settled, the owners were caught and made harmless and they could be sure that the Irishman wouldn’t bother them, there was a risk to John being on his own.

As far as Moriarty went, though, there was both the risk that he’d never stop and the unlikelihood that he’d restrict himself, either to only targeting John while he was out or while on his own. To look for rhyme or reason was to blind yourself when it came to that Alpha.

He had to believe that in such a situation, John would be fine on his own. Not only was he a former soldier, he’d done so before, after all, without Sherlock there. He had to believe it, and he did.

Did he?

Yes. He did. Completely, once he pushed past the Alpha thoughts clogging his mind.

It wasn’t only John who had to struggle with some kneejerk reactions, it seemed.

But why else would an Alpha come here – and specifically just happen to pick the time that Sherlock was away? Again, not to say that he should be there, but it was odd that of all times, if this was just someone dropping by for whatever reason, that they’d pick the precise time John would be on his own.

Shaking himself out of his momentary frozen state, he made it to the door and opened it. Only to stop again the moment he did, taking in what was in front of him.

John was sitting on the sofa, staring at something that he held in his hand, but which Sherlock couldn’t make out from his position. That wasn’t what got the majority of the brunet’s attention, however.

That was reserved for his bond mate’s expression and, now that he was inside the flat, the scent coming off him. Both of which sent the emotions that he’d been struggling to get under control earlier flaring back up far stronger than the first time.

What was he holding? Who had been here? What had the Alpha done to cause this reaction in Sherlock’s bond mate.

The evidence he was automatically picking up wasn’t much help in piecing together what had happened, other than the Alpha had been spewing out enough scent to entice a nunnery but it had a particular deeper note that only appeared when the intention was to intimidate and dominate, and that he’d stayed in one place for almost the entirety of his stay, right where Sherlock was now.

As those thoughts and deductions raced through his mind, his instincts chimed in with their own points, which didn’t take much, if any of what he deduced into account, running almost purely on the initial emotional response.

_You should never have gone out, never have left John alone. This is what happens when you aren’t there to ward off the idiots who tries to get close to what belongs to –_

No! No, no, no. No. That was not true. It was okay to be worried, to be scared and even to be angry but none of those made it alright for him to regress like that. Not even when John, who had up until this point rarely if ever completely failed to register his presence, in whatever form that took, didn’t in any way acknowledge him.

Even with all of that in his mind, he wasn’t entirely able to pull himself together, which was why, when he called out John’s name to get his attention, his voice came out a little strangled and why the questions tumbled out of his mouth like that. Why his voice rose and all the rest of it, really.

But John, wonderful, clever John, understood and didn’t get angry at him for it. Shaken though he unquestionably was, and worried and scared, he also had enough thought to ask for that which would help, for both him and his mate.

As he pressed his nose into the Omega’s scent gland, his instincts rose again to urge him to lick over the mark he’d made, the visible reminder that John had become his, perhaps worry it just a little to bring it out clearly again so that there’d be no way to hide it. Not only that, they wanted very much for him to track that berk of an Alpha and rip him apart for daring to send John into this state.

However, as before, the scent of his bond mate managed to both ground his spiralling thoughts and to make instincts fade into murmurs before they shut up entirely.

Whatever had happened, John would tell him, and they’d work out what to do from there. Together, as they always did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope it wasn't too confusing that we jumped backwards a bit with Sherlock coming home and such. It just flowed out like that and...yeah. I could've ended the chapter before then but with the wait you had to endure, I didn't want to give you a short chapter.  
> Are there tags I need to add to this?  
> I liked writing the thoughts of Sherlock on this - and well, all of it, really. Next chapter I hope won't take as long but I don't want to promise something I might not be able to keep.

**Author's Note:**

> And we start in traditional fashion, with a sort of cliffhanger :)  
> If it seems slowgoing or a bit mish-mashy as a start-up, I apologise. Things will pick up and make more sense, so stick with me. :)  
> It's interesting to keep building in this particular world, partly because I left some loose threads, though deliberately, in the first story, and I hope I haven't messed up too much. You know me :)  
> Feedback is as always really greatly treasured, but please keep the criticism constructive.


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